


take the plan, spin it sideways

by clayisforgirls



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Did I Mention the Homophobia?, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Family Issues, Homophobia, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sort Of, post-retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 19:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 45,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17290277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayisforgirls/pseuds/clayisforgirls
Summary: so glad u made the right choice. Im proud of u, peeks. :)I didn’t do anything that any other GM wouldn’t have donewe both know that’s not trueIn 2032, Patrick drafts the first openly gay player into the NHL.If only he could come out himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't plan to write this story for the BBFE. Originally I was going to write a royalty AU. To be honest, it probably would have saved me endless research about the Florida Panthers if I had actually written the royalty AU. Seriously guys. Don't write about teams you know nothing about.
> 
> This story wouldn't exist without some wonderful people, but I think the person I most need to thank is _thundersquall_ for being the bestest cheerleader, chatficcer, and asskicker ther is. Other people who have definitely helped along the way are _linsky_ , _caivallon_ , and _thirteentorafters_ , for being the most supportive and/or word warring with me.
> 
> Also **heartstrings** made some insanely beautiful artwork and a fanmix! You can check that out [here](http://officialhilaryknight.tumblr.com/post/181689912016/take-the-plan-spin-it-sideways-clayisforgirls) and [here](http://officialhilaryknight.tumblr.com/post/181689914826/take-the-plan-spin-it-sideways-clayisforgirls). Seriously. The most beautiful.
> 
> The emotional manipulation tag does not refer to Patrick and Jonny's relationship in this. But I am really not kidding about the homophobia in this. Please don't say I didn't warn you.

**June 2032**

Name: Owen Cooper  
Hometown: Barrie, ON, Canada  
Plays: Center  
Shoots: Left

At World Juniors, Owen Cooper showed the skills that make him the third highest ranked prospect in this year’s draft. With a style of play reminiscent of Jonathan Toews, Cooper appears to have the whole package. He captained his World Junior team to the gold medal and did the same with the Sarnia Sting and the Memorial Cup. He plays a mature, two way game and appears to be ready to make the step to the NHL.

Although Cooper has the makings of a great player, there are reports from the Sarnia locker room that not every player agreed with the decision to make him captain. There are a handful of players in Sarnia who said that they were not comfortable with Cooper being made captain after only two games, and that there were times that Cooper was not approachable and that he kept a distance from the rest of the team.

There is no doubt that Cooper will get drafted, and so will become the first openly LGBT player to do so. However there is always a risk involved with drafting any player who might upset the balance of a team, as he did in Sarnia. 

Cooper has the skills to succeed in the NHL. Whether he has the personality to fit onto a team remains to be seen.

*****

If Patrick’s being honest, he hadn’t paid much attention to Owen Cooper at the combine.

Patrick’s got the eleventh draft pick, and looking at guys ranked number three overall wasn’t high on his list of priorities. He’d read the reports on Cooper, same as any other guy here. He’d even met Cooper, but it had been little more than a polite conversation about the combine and a congratulations on the Memorial Cup.

But Nashville are about to make their pick—the tenth overall–and well. Owen Cooper is still available. Patrick would have to be stupid to think they’re going to draft a gay kid to the middle of the Bible Belt, which—

Which means Owen Cooper is going to end up in Florida. Even Patrick can admit that’s pretty fucking amazing for his second year as GM.

The three minutes and twenty seconds it takes for Nashville to make their pick feel like the longest three minutes of Patrick’s life, but when they take a left wing with soft hands but slow skating, Patrick lets out a shaky breath. 

This is _it_. The third most talented skater, and he’s _Patrick’s_.

“We’re up,” Tom says. Like Patrick would have forgotten that he’s about to make what could be the most controversial decision of his career. “We’re still taking Ivanov, yes?”

Patrick looks at his assistant general manager as though he’s grown an extra head, because _what_. And why.

“No,” Patrick says. “We’re taking Cooper.”

Tom’s forehead creases in confusion, like he doesn’t understand why Patrick would take the third most talented skater of the year.

“Hockey’s a team sport. I know you’ve heard what Sarnia’s said about him. He’s not a team player.”

Patrick looks around the table to the rest of the team he’s brought with him. They’re all silent. Whether that’s because they agree with Patrick or just don’t want to get into Patrick vs Tom: Round 2042, he doesn’t know. He really hopes it’s the first.

“We both know why he’s like that, Tom,” Patrick states. Because he’s been around eighteen year old hockey players, and some of the shit that came out of his mouth at that age would make him ashamed now. “And I’ve been in lockers rooms. No one on my team is going to give a fuck who he sleeps with. And if they do, they don’t belong in Florida.”

For a second Tom looks like he wants to protest Patrick’s decision, but he’s glad when Tom shuts his mouth and nods. Patrick _really_ doesn’t want to start another round of _I was in the NHL and you weren’t_. He knows that Tom resents him for getting the GM job just because he’s Patrick Kane, but it’s not like he was the one who made that decision.

“Like you said, it’s your choice.”

Patrick didn’t say that, but he’s not about to argue the point. He’s sure there are going to be a handful of fans out there that will hate his decision, but as long as his team is improving in the standings, he really doesn’t give a shit what a homophobic asshole in Miami thinks about his draft picks.

The walk to the stage seems longer that it did even last year, and Patrick keeps his head ducked, doesn’t meet the eye of any reporter or camera man until he’s looking into the main camera. It feels different from last year, different from when he chirped Jonny about only being a third overall pick, different from his own draft day, and his stomach twists as he adjusts the microphone.

“The Florida Panthers are proud to select Owen Cooper, from the Sarnia Sting.”

There’s the normal burst of applause as Owen hugs his parents and starts making his way towards the stage, but there’s an undercurrent of murmuring that Patrick already hates. He doesn’t look at the whispering between them, just keeps his focus on Owen as someone takes his jacket and hands him the bright red Florida jersey.

He watches Gary Bettman greet Owen as he reaches the stage, the same creepy stare directed towards Owen that all players get, and Patrick’s at least relieved that at least he’s acting the same as he normally does. Bettman is just universally creepy, and for the first time in his life it’s something that he’s a tiny bit appreciative of.

Only slightly, because he’s still _Gary Bettman_.

Patrick watches Owen pull on the jersey and dazedly walk over to Patrick. He looks tense, like he’s terrified of fucking up in front of the thousands of people watching. Or like he’s terrified of what Patrick’s going to say to him.

Patrick doesn’t even question himself when he pulls Owen into a hug. It’s the same kind of hug he’d have given any of his teammates after a win, the typical bro hug that’s all too familiar to a hockey player.

“Welcome to Florida, kid,” Patrick tells him as he pulls away. The tense smile Owen had been sporting smooths out at the edges, the relief on his face visible. Patrick isn’t sure if that’s because Owen expected him to be an asshole or if he’s just glad his name was finally called. “Now smile for the cameras.”

They _both_ have to smile for the cameras, over and over, and then finally they’re escorted off stage where Patrick’s blinded by the flashes until Owen’s whisked away by the NHL network.

There’s only a few seconds of relief before Patrick’s got a microphone in his face, a reporter he doesn’t know asking a question about drafting the first gay player in the NHL. It’s a stupid question; even if Patrick didn’t know that Owen’s not the first, it would be a statistical anomaly to have never had a player in the NHL who was closeted.

But it’s not like he can tell the reporter that he knows there are other players into dudes that definitely played in the NHL, because even if he didn’t care about outing himself, he would never do that to Jonny.

“I think maybe it’s time for our sport to come into the twenty first century,” Patrick says. “I’m proud to be the first manager to draft an openly gay player. I‘m proud that Owen was brave enough to be himself. But it’s what he can do on the ice that I care about. Last season he had a hundred and twenty one points. I’m excited to see what he can do in Florida.”

The reporter’s mouth draws into a thin line; he clearly didn’t get the answer he wanted but Patrick doesn’t care. It’s the truth. 

He’s not going to tell the world that he wishes he was as brave as Owen Cooper. 

*****

It’s almost an hour before Patrick's reunited with Owen. It feels like every reporter here wants a piece of him this year, in a way that they hadn’t previously because no one cares about the Florida Panthers.

And at least for Patrick, it’s not something that ever becomes easier. He’d got better at it over the course of his career, but he’d always had Jonny by his side, there to take the weight of the world when Patrick couldn’t.

This time it’s different; there’s no Jonny by his side. It’s just Patrick, and his gay draft pick, and a sea of reporters and photographers and camera flashes.

It takes too long for them to get bored of Patrick and Owen, and soon it’s just Natalie that remains. Thankfully, she’s seen enough of Patrick over the last year to know that he’s kind of epically done with any kind of media, and she only asks them for a couple of photos for social media before she disappears too.

“Thanks,” is the first thing out of Owen’s mouth once they’re alone. He looks tired, like the weight of the world has finally been lifted off his shoulders and he just needs to nap for he next day. Or maybe ten. Patrick remembers how nerve wracking it was for him on his own draft day, and he knew he was going to Chicago. He can’t imagine how it was for Owen, sitting and waiting and waiting for his name to be called just because of this one stupid thing.

“Easiest decision I’ve ever made,” Patrick says. It’s not a lie.

“I started to think it wasn’t gonna happen,” Owen says. “All those teams passed on me, and—”

“You play like Tazer,” Patrick says, because that’s the only thing that matters to him. “Just, without the crazy eyes. I wasn’t gonna pass that up. But, uh, if he asks I never said that.”

Owen laughs at that a little, the tight, tired smile fading into something smoother, and Patrick feels himself relax a little.

“Thanks, Mr Kane.”

“Kaner,” Patrick corrects, because there are some things in hockey that won’t ever change. “I’m gonna say this to all of my draft picks, but I mean it. If you need me, call me. Whatever it is, I’ve probably been there. If I haven’t, we’ll figure it out together.”

Owen nods, his eyes wide and trusting, and dutifully hands Patrick his phone when he’s asked. It’s easy to save his number under _GM Kaner_ , and sends himself a text in return so that he has Owen’s. He really hopes the kid uses it.

“You got any plans for tonight?” Patrick asks, but Owen shakes his head.

“We didn’t—dad said that we shouldn’t celebrate too early. I guess we’ll find somewhere to have dinner.”

“Just don’t have too much fun with the champagne,” Patrick says, grinning. “I know you’re legal here, but I’m not sure ‘first round draft pick gets thrown out of bar’ is gonna make the best first impression on the NHL.”

“Can’t be worse than ‘gay hockey player’,” Owen says self deprecatingly. He’s probably right, and Patrick hates it.

“We’re gonna change that. Show them you can play, and they’ll forget about the rest.”

Patrick doesn’t tell him it’s something he’s all too familiar with, but he probably doesn’t need to. He’s read Owen’s bio, seen him talk about how much he idolised Jonathan Toews when he was growing up, how he modeled his game around Jonny’s early years. And you don’t get to research Jonny without a hefty side dose of Patrick Kane and the unfortunate side effects of alcohol.

There’s a few seconds of silence before there’s a knock on the door, and then the room is flooded with Owen’s family. It’s Owen’s mother that pulls Owen into a hug first, and Patrick looks away. This isn’t his moment. This should be for Owen.

He taps Owen on the shoulder and says his goodbyes before he steps into the corridor. It’s quiet, something Patrick desperately needs after the unexpected insanity of the day, and he ducks into an alcove so he can take a few minutes to decompress.

His phone _maybe_ isn’t the best idea, but he slides it out of his pocket anyway. It’s a clusterfuck of texts and voicemails, but ignores everything except Owen’s message as he saves the number into his phone.

When he backs out of it there’s a message from Jonny at the top of the list. He knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s going to open an old wound that won’t ever heal, but Patrick was never good at leaving his scabs alone when he was a kid.

He opens Jonny’s message, running a hand through his hair as he takes in the words.

_so glad u made the right choice. Im proud of u, peeks. :)_

_I didn’t do anything that any other GM wouldn’t have done_ Patrick replies.

_we both know that’s not true_ comes quickly, and yeah, Jonny’s not wrong. But Jonny’s still typing, the little dot dot dot sporadically appearing as Patrick waits for the next message to appear

_If u want a break from answering stupid qs, u know where i am_

Patrick _desperately_ wants to say yes, but Lake of the Woods has never been somewhere safe. Lake of the Woods means him and Jonny hidden from the rest of the world, and that never ends well for Patrick’s heart.

_Got a kid here that looks at you like your the moon. You can work on your tan in south fla too._

_ha ha_ comes the reply, but it’s not a no.

There’s so much Patrick could say, but he chooses to say nothing and slips the phone back in his pocket. He should be out with the rest of his team, doing his job. Trying to see what the status of their second round pick list is. Not trying to get Jonny Toews to work on his tan in Patrick’s backyard.

Patrick knows it’s his own fault. But that doesn’t mean the last words Jonny ever said to him in Chicago don’t haunt him as he walks back to his table. He feels the stares from the fans, sees the wariness pasted across the faces of his team.

_If you’re not willing to come out, I’m not willing to be your secret._

As Patrick takes his seat, he knows that nothing’s changed. He could draft a million gay players, but it doesn’t matter. They don’t conform to what the NHL is, what it’s always been. They’re _different_ than everyone else, drawing attention to themselves above the rest of the team.

He could ask every player that’s ever sat in the same locker room as him, and they’d all say the same thing: it’s not what hockey’s about.

But Patrick remembers when he was told that hockey wasn’t for him, that he was too small, too light to play in the NHL. He wanted to prove that he could, a _fuck you_ to all the coaches who ever doubted him. And the NHL _did_ change; the least became littered with Kanes and Gaudreaus and Debrincats and Marners—

And maybe this is his chance to do it again.

*****

The rest of the draft goes smoothly, or at least a smoothly as a group discussion with six different people _can_ go. Patrick’s pleased there aren’t any disagreements over their second round pick (Henrik Larsson, a 5’8” left wing from Sweden), and he’s willing to be swayed towards a d-man in the third round, rather than the winger he’d initially wanted. 

Tom’s still not really talking to him, at least about anything other than the draft. It’s something that Patrick’s going to have to smooth over at development camp—or maybe even before that—but it’s not something he wants to be worrying about after what feels like two of the longest days of his life. Right now he’s ready for a shower and his bed. And in lieu of his bed, he’ll take the Hilton down the street.

Patrick dozes on the flight home, his face smushed into the neck pillow that Jonny bought him once he accepted the GM job. The thought of Jonny makes his stomach twist uncomfortably; he hasn’t heard from Jonny since he invited him to Florida. It’s not unusual, not even unexpected, but just because this is their normal now doesn’t mean that Patrick has to like it.

He’s meant to be taking the rest of the day off, the same as the rest of his team, but after ten minutes of driving Patrick realises he’s heading towards the Panthers offices, rather than his bed. He figures it can’t hurt to get some work done, have another look at some of the young prospects before development camp, and once he’s behind his desk he pulls up YouTube.

He’s deep into his search of _andy murray ohl_ when he hears footsteps in the corridor. It doesn’t pull Patrick from watching Murray deke around a defender, at least not until he hears a soft knock on his open door.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Patrick looks towards the doorway to find his head coach. He’s relieved it’s Spencer in the doorway and not Tom, and Patrick beckons him into the room.

“We’re meant to be having dinner tonight,” Patrick says. He’s a little curious as to why Spencer’s here. “Unless we’re not?”

“Dinner’s fine,” Spencer says. He takes the most comfortable chair on the other side of Patrick’s desk, placing his coffee cup on the table. Each move seems measured and calculated, and it throws Patrick off guard. “But I thought we might be able to have a more… private chat first.”

“Sure,” Patrick says, swallowing nervously. He pulls at the cuff of his shirt, wishing that he had a coffee cup of his own to play with instead of trying to get all of his nervous ticks under control. Because he is nervous. Other than Spencer quitting, he can’t think of another reason why Spencer would want to see him now. There’s nothing else that couldn’t have waited until dinner tonight.

“Patrick, I—” Spencer starts, and Patrick readies himself to begin the hunt for a new coach. Which sucks, because not only does he like Spencer, he’s actually pretty fucking good at his job. Patrick’s actually _glad_ Jonny turned the coaching job down when Patrick offered. “Okay no, we’re gonna do you first. You look like you’re getting a death sentence.”

“I might have given myself one,” Patrick says quietly.

“With Cooper?” Spencer asks, and Patrick nods. “He seems like a good kid. Solid two way game. Not sure we’ve got a winger for him yet, but I’m sure we’ll find him one at camp.”

“So you’re not quitting?” comes out in a rush. Spencer looks at Patrick like he’s the dumbest thing he’s ever seen—it’s not dissimilar to the way he sometimes looks at the team when they take stupid penalties—and Patrick feels the nerves drain out of him. “Oh thank god.”

“I know there’s guys out there that would,” Spencer says, his words careful, “but I don’t care who he fucks in his spare time. As long as he’s willing to work hard and score goals, that’s all I care about. Well, that and not punching any cabbies.”

“Fuck off,” Patrick says, but he’s smiling. It’s returned easily by Spencer. “So, what _did_ you want to talk about?”

“I want us to be on the same page about Cooper. And I think maybe we should do that before tonight.”

It’s a good point. Maybe one Patrick should have thought of. But it’s not like he thought he’d have a shot at drafting Cooper.

“You got any ideas?”

It turns out, Spencer has a _lot_ of ideas. Mostly he wants the locker room to be a safe space to Cooper, one without any homophobic slurs floating around.

“You think that’s going to happen?”

“Not at first. But we can talk to Eks, see if he’s got any ideas. Maybe do a couple more team bonding things this year during training camp this year. I’ll have a look at the Marlins schedule, see if that’ll work.”

It’s not the worst idea Patrick’s ever heard, and he offers his fist in solidarity. Spencer looks at it before reluctantly bumping it back.

“You can take the player out of the NHL—” he starts, before he shakes his head. “I’m on your side, Pat. But you have to be on mine too. Just give me some warning next time before my phone starts blowing up.”

Patrick pauses. It’d be the perfect opportunity to tell Spencer his own secret, the perfect opening to say _hey, I’m kind of in love with this dude who I kind of wanted to have your job_. That he knows how locker rooms can be. That Jonny did his best to stop the slurs in theirs even before they were sleeping together. That it’s almost impossible with such a varied mix of people.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead he says, “I don’t think there’ll be a next time,” hoping that whatever’s on his face is reassuring. “See you tonight?”

Spencer nods, and disappears from the room almost as quickly as he entered. Patrick runs a hand through his hair, and turns back to the screen where Andy Murray’s scoring one of the sickest five hole goals that Patrick’s ever seen.

*****

Development camp starts with the normal undercurrent of tension, but with a side helping of nerves that are all Patrick’s. Well, maybe some of them belong to the prospects. But he definitely hadn’t felt this nervous last year. Last year he didn’t have anything to prove except to himself.

This year not only does he have to prove that the Panthers are trending in the right direction, but also that a gay player on a hockey team isn’t going to matter. And sure, it’s only development camp, but Patrick knows better than most that most of the hockey world is going to be watching.

He remembers enough from his own development camp to know that there are going to be players in there with a chip on their shoulder. The ones where they were drafted a couple of years ago and still aren’t in the NHL. And then there are going to be players like Owen, who are going to get the training camp invite no matter what happens on the ice.

Patrick just hopes that the first set can keep their mouths shut long enough to make an impression on the ice. Because he knows all too well how jealousy manifests in kids in all the worst ways. Remembers the guy who’d told his friend that _Kane probably looks better on his knees than on the ice_ when he thought that Patrick was out of earshot.

He hopes that nineteen year olds in 2032 aren’t as fucking dumb as they were in 2007, but he doesn’t hold out much hope for it to be true.

At least this time, he has Spencer on his side. They’d decided that this year Spencer would do the introductions, since last year there had been too many teenagers having an internal _holy shit that’s Patrick Kane_ moment while they’d been trying to explain what was going to happen over the next few days.

But he’s still watching from the hallway while Spencer makes his introductions. It’s easy, the same boring stuff they’re going to go over at training camp, the same thing Patrick heard a million times over the years. At least until Spencer starts laying out his ground rules.

“Before you take the ice, there’s a few additional team rules that you’re going to need to be aware of. We want to be an organisation that’s accepting of everyone. You can chirp each other on the ice all you want. But if it’s racist, or homophobic, or misogynistic or any of those other _ic_ words—you’ll get a warning. Another one and you’re off the team. It doesn’t matter what round you were drafted in or how many times you’ve been here. And if you make the team, the same thing applies. Any questions?”

Patrick does a fist pump in the corridor when there’s silence, although if he’d had Spencer telling him that at eighteen, he’d have been shit scared too. Dude knows how to terrorise people.

(He’s also kind, and a great listener, and Patrick can _see_ why he brings the best out in players. But jesus, he can be terrifying.)

“Now I’ve done all the shitty parts, I‘m gonna hand you over to Patrick who knows a lot better than I do what it’s like to go through this. And maybe he can give you some Calder tips too.”

There’s at least one gasp in the room, which Patrick can’t help but roll his eyes at—does this kid live under a rock or something?—but as soon as he walks into their field of vision he sees their eyes snap over to him like he’s a zebra and they’re all lions waiting to eat him. If the lions were super terrified of getting eaten by the zebra. Scratch that, it’s totally the wrong metaphor. Maybe he’s the lion.

“So, uh, most of you probably know me—” he starts. There are a couple of laughs, a few eye rolls, and at least half of them look less awed at him afterwards, which is exactly what he wanted. Being Patrick Kane sometimes has its drawbacks.

“I’m not gonna give you platitudes, because I’ve been where you are. I played hockey longer than most of you have been alive. And I know what it’s like out there. When I came to Chicago, they were giving away tickets on the street to get fans to come to games. I know Florida’s not Chicago. It’s gonna be tough to get people in seats here. But I want to change that. I think some of you can help me.”

_I want to prove people wrong_ , he doesn’t say.

“Spencer will tell you the same thing, but my door’s always open. Even if you think it’s dumb, I’d rather know about it. Because I’ve probably seen it. Or I’ve done it. So if you have any questions, you can always come see me after skate.”

“Any questions _now_?” Spencer asks the group. There are a couple of headshakes, but mostly there’s silence. “Good. I’m expecting you all on the ice in thirty.”

The prospects file out, and it leaves Spencer and Patrick alone.

“You ready?” Spencer asks him. Patrick shakes his head.

“I hate this part,” Patrick says. “Ruining the dreams of kids who were just like me isn’t—it’s pretty fucking shit.”

“If you’re looking for an ego boost about how good you were on the ice, I’m not gonna give you one,” Spencer says, rolling his eyes. “Just—pretend they’re video game characters or something when you tell them. I’ll deal with the tears.”

“You’re the worst,” Patrick says, trying to hide a laugh behind his sleeve. “Why did I hire you?”

“Because I‘m good at my job,” Spencer says without hesitancy. It’s true; Patrick had plucked him from the University of Wisconsin after they’d won the Frozen Four for the second time, and in the thirteen months they’ve been working together Patrick hasn’t regretted it once. “And so are you. So you might _hate_ this part, but you’re not bad at it.”

Patrick thinks part of that might be because he’s been there. He remembers the tears when teams passed over him in the OHL, remembers telling his dad telling him that they’re going to prove them all wrong.

And Spencer’s right. It’s shit, but it part of hockey. And he signed up for the good _and_ the bad.

“And it probably hurts a little less coming from Patrick Kane than anyone else,” Spencer adds, grinning. “They’ll still probably ask you for a selfie afterwards.”

Patrick groans, remembering the prospect who did just that last year. He wishes he’d never told Spencer about that.

“Just—go do your job. I’ll see you out there in a few.”

Spencer mock salutes him before he heads towards the locker room.

“Note to self: stop hiring assholes,” Patrick mutters to himself. Even if Spencer’s the good kind of asshole, it makes his life a million times harder.

*****

Patrick’s glad when the prospects are all herded into a session about the dangers of social media, mostly because it gives him forty minutes to decompress and stop wanting to punch Tom in the face.

After making a thinly veiled excuse to the rest of his team, Patrick hides himself away in the room where the prospect buffet is set up; it’s the one place where he doesn’t think that anyone will look for him. He might have an open door policy, but right now Patrick needs ten minutes of peace. Maybe fifteen, if he can get away with it.

Jess has sent him two photos of her youngest daughter. She’s three now, and the photos have her dressed in a tiny Panthers jersey.

It’s _way_ too cute, and Patrick sends back a few hearts and a comment that Hawks red would look better on her. Despite his current position, he still bleeds red and black. His name’s hanging in the rafters and everything.

He saves the photos into the folder he has for Jess’s kids—all perfect mini Kanes, of course—and before he knows it his fifteen minutes have disappeared.

Patrick stops by his office on the way back to grab his iPad, but when he reaches it, the door’s ajar. It’s weird, because he _knows_ he shut that on the way out—his desk is currently covered in more paperwork than he ever wants to see again—and he’d rather not have anyone else messing with it.

He cautiously pushes the door open half expecting a bucket of water to fall on his head—he might be the GM, but it doesn’t mean he’s immune to pranks—but instead he finds Jonny, a mischievous grin sitting on his face.

That’s probably because Jonny’s sitting on his desk, his feet on one of the chairs, and less because he thinks that dumb rookie pranks are a good idea at the beginning of development camp. Unless he thinks that turning up in Patrick’s office is a good idea of a prank. And it’s Jonny, so Patrick’s not 100% sure he _doesn’t_ think that.

“Hi Peeks,” Jonny says.

“How did you get in here?” Patrick asks, but it’s a dumb question. Jonny waves the pass Patrick gave him when he’d offered him the coaching position. He should really take that back.

“Finders keepers,” Jonny says stupidly, his grin getting wider. Patrick wants to kiss it off him. “And you invited me here.”

_Four days ago_ Patrick thinks, but invitations have never really been their thing.

Instead of finding the words, he pulls Jonny into a too tight hug, pressing his face against Jonny’s neck. Jonny’s still for a second until he relaxes into it, his mouth pressed against Patrick’s ear.

He’s not sure how long they stand wrapped up in each other, but it’s probably too long. It’s just—he’s really missed Jonny. A lot. Too much.

“I need to work,” Patrick says eventually, his words mumbled into the smooth skin at the base of Jonny’s neck.

“‘S why I came,” Jonny says. Patrick pulls back and gives him a questioning look, because he fucking _knows_ how to figure out which prospects to keep and which to cut and how they’re going to skate with others. It’s what he’s good at.

He’s about to tell Jonny exactly where he can stick it when Jonny continues.

“I thought you could use the moral support, dumbfuck. You were always better at the Rain Man thing than me.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. Just because he pays attention doesn’t make him Rain Man. It’s just stats. They’re easy.

“Then I should probably go be Rain Man for a while,” he says, offering Jonny a half smile. Jonny nods, which is fine. He’ll see Jonny at home. 

Except once Patrick’s grabbed his iPad and his notebook, Jonny starts following him down the corridor.

“Didn’t know you were into stalking, Toews,” Patrick says.

“Maybe I want to see my favorite player.”

“I’m not planning on getting my skates on,” Patrick says, knowing he’s about to walk into a chirp. “But we can skate later if you have yours.”

“Your ego astounds me,” Jonny chirps, rolling his eyes. “There’s this guy on your team now called Owen Cooper? You might’ve heard of him.”

“Funny,” Patrick says, pushing the button to the elevator. “You gonna come to games in his jersey? Get one of those creepy masks with his face on? Wait for his autograph after games?”

Patrick shouldn’t be jealous. He knows it’s a joke. But it’s also _Jonny_ , and Patrick’s never been particularly rational when it comes to Jonny.

“Jealous?” Jonny says, the curve of his mouth obvious. Patrick scowls, hating that he can’t hide his need to be loved by Jonathan Toews. But instead of chirping him some more, Jonny takes a step towards him, so close that they’re almost pressed together. Patrick freezes in place, not waiting to ruin the moment. “Because you shouldn’t be. You’re always gonna be my favorite.”

There’s a split second where Patrick thinks about kissing Jonny in the corridor of the Panthers offices, somewhere that anyone could walk up and see them, but the moment’s broken by the elevator announcing its arrival.

It takes Patrick a second for his brain to come back online, and by the time it does Jonny’s already in the elevator, pressed into the furthest corner from the door. Nothing about his stance screams that he’s still interested in kissing Patrick, so Patrick presses the button for the third floor and closes his eyes.

*****

Jonny disappears halfway through the afternoon skate sessions, but it’s only once Patrick’s done for the day that he realises Jonny has taken his keys. He considers calling Jonny and getting him to pick Patrick up, but by the time he does that it would have been quicker to take a cab home.

He’s waiting for his Lyft when he hears two voices, and his name. The first is distinctly Tom, but the second is harder to place. Maybe his assistant, or one of the janitors, or—

Well, Patrick doesn’t care really. He’s more interested in what they’re saying.

“—bring his fucking boyfriend here, probably trying replace me. It’s obvious he fucking hates me—”

Patrick muffles a laugh, because that wasn’t true until Tom was nothing but an asshole to him for a year. 

“—so why does Toews need to be here?”

“If Patrick wanted Toews here, he’d already have your job. Maybe he just wanted to relieve his glory days. Maybe he just wanted to see his friend. But—”

“Don’t be dumb, David.”

And _oh_ , it’s the skating and conditioning coach.

“Tom,” David says. It’s the same no nonsense tone he uses with the guys on the ice when they’re not up to scratch. The one that as a hockey player, you immediately ask _how high_ when he tell you to jump in that tone. “You didn’t get Patrick’s job. Either you need to accept that, or you need to move on.”

It’s then that Patrick’s ride arrives, and as much as he wants to stay and listen to this much too public conversation that they’re having, he slides into the back seat of the car and confirms where he’s going.

The traffic’s lighter than he expected, but he still can’t stop replaying the conversation between David and Tom for the twenty minute ride. They’re two of the only people left over from the previous regime in Florida; Patrick had kept Tom around because he’d seemed competent at his job. He’d been with the organisation a while, and Patrick had needed that at first.

But he doesn’t need Tom anymore, and Patrick thinks that recently that’s been the root cause of their arguments. It’s something he _should_ nip in the bud, but when Tom’s talking shit about him—

Patrick’s getting a tension headache just thinking about it.

When he gets home the front door knob turns under his hand and Patrick shakes his head—sure, they’re in a nice part of Florida, but it’s not Lake of the Woods, _Jonathan_ —but once the door’s pushed open he’s assaulted with the smell of food and that overwhelms any other thoughts he might have had.

Because whatever Jonny’s cooking, it smells _amazing_. Spicy and peppery and just way better than anything that’s been consumed in his house in the last week. 

Maybe longer than that, if Patrick’s honest.

He can see almost right away that the kitchen is a disaster—and disaster might be putting it kindly—but when Jonny’s making him something that smells home cooked then he can’t bring himself to bitch about it.

He hovers in the doorway for a few seconds, watching Jonny move between the stove and the blender and the refrigerator seamlessly, until it becomes apparent that Jonny is fully at home in Patrick’s kitchen. Even looks like he belongs there.

Patrick runs a hand through his curls and shakes his head, because that is not a route he needs to be going down.

Instead he kicks off his shoes and pads over to the kitchen counter, sliding onto one of the stools there. Jonny doesn’t look away from the stove until he’s done stirring something that’s vaguely orange colored, and once it’s safely in a bowl he turns to Patrick.

Jonny’s barely even taken a look before he’s handed Patrick his own half drunk bottle of beer.

“You need this more than I do.”

“You got that right,” Patrick says, bringing the bottle to his lips. It’s not his preferred brand and definitely one that wasn’t in his refrigerator when he left for work this morning. But for one of Jonny’s fancy craft beers, it’s not so bad.

It’s easy to drain the bottle and once it’s empty he slides it over to Jonny. Before Patrick can blink it’s replaced with a full one. He knows it would be so easy to get used to this, Jonny greeting him every night with food and beer and smiles that are only ever directed towards him.

But it’s not an option, so Patrick hides his own half smile behind his bottle.

Other than the whir of the oven, it’s quiet. Too quiet, because when Patrick looks back over at Jonny he has an eyebrow raised, like he’s waiting for Patrick to get comfortable and spill whatever’s bothering him. Sometimes he hates that it’s impossible to hide anything from someone who’s known him for so long.

“How do I deal with an asshole?”

“You’re pretty good at dealing with me,” Jonny says, hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I mean like, an actual asshole.” Jonny looks at him like he needs more words, which. “Tom.”

“I just used to yell at them until they got the point,” Jonny says. Patrick’s not sure if he’s being honest and he truly believes that, or he’s trying to make a joke. “Probably not the kind of advice you need.”

“No,” Patrick groans. He buries his face in his hands. “He’s jealous that I got the GM job over him.”

“It’s been a year,” Jonny says, his brow furrowed. “Are you sure it’s that?”

_No_ , Patrick thinks. But there isn’t a good way to tell Jonny that his assistant GM is likely the kind of homophobic asshole he doesn’t want in his locker room. He knows how the conversation will end, because it always ends with Jonny telling him that the solution is to come out.

Patrick really doesn’t think that’s going to solve a fucking thing.

“Pretty sure,” Patrick says after a pause that’s much too long. Jonny gives him a look to say that he doesn’t quite believe that’s the right answer, but he thankfully lets it go. Patrick knows he must look like shitty for Jonny not to push. “Whatcha cooking?”

“If I tell you, you won’t eat it,” Jonny says. He’s probably right. “But there should be leftovers. I’ll freeze them so you can stop living on take out.”

Patrick doesn’t even want to know how Jonny knows that—although knowing Jonny, he probably went through his trash—so he just shoots Jonny a tired smile in reply, and watches Jonny cook the rest of their dinner.

*****

Jonny drops him at the office the following morning, a cup of coffee glued to his hand courtesy of Starbucks drive through. Patrick has to laugh at the domesticity of it all; like Jonny’s his house husband, cooking and cleaning and taking him to work. It’s exactly what he wants, and yet not even close.

He’s distracted in the the morning skate session until Cooper gels with a left wing named Matt Carpenter; Patrick watches them score four goals in ten minutes against the poor goaltender before Spencer splits them up. It’s kind of amazing to see, reminds him a little of the time when him and Jonny played on a line together for the first time. There are a couple of other forwards he likes the look of, and one d-man, but most of the other prospects aren’t quite where they need to be yet.

They’ve got a couple more days to impress him, but thanks to his predecessor the Panthers prospect pool isn’t where Patrick would like it to be.

Amazingly, when he discusses his solid yesses with Tom, there isn’t any argument. Patrick has to pinch himself to make sure he’s not dreaming before he remembers the conversation Tom had with David last night. He wonders exactly what David said to Tom once Patrick left, because this isn’t the Tom that Patrick has become accustomed to.

But it’s not something he’s going to question right now. Ignorance is bliss, and so is silence.

Spencer thankfully agrees with Patrick too—although that’s much less of a shock—and he’s thankful there isn’t going to be a lengthy debate over lunch today. Instead he hears about the difficult adjustments to the NHL size ice from one of the European scouts, and what they can try and do to help them adjust.

There isn’t much that Patrick doesn’t know from having skated with players with similar issues, and he’s not going to be as quick to write off someone who’s struggling with the transition. He might have the next Kahun on his hands, someone who doesn’t develop quite as fast as most GMs and coaches would like.

Patience isn’t easy when fans want something _now_ , but sometimes things take time.

Thankfully there’s at least one—likely two—guys in his prospect pool that _are_ going to make a difference right away. At least he can keep them happy with that.

The conversation eventually segues into where everyone’s taking their vacation this year. Patrick doesn’t have much to offer on the excitement front, since other than that offer from Jonny, he hasn’t even thought about a vacation yet. If Jonny’s still here, he might just go and lie on South Beach for two weeks.

It’s then that _Tazer_ lights up Patrick’s phone. Patrick takes one look at the room, and declines the call. He doesn’t want to give Tom any more ammunition.

Except Jonny doesn’t give up. After the third try, Patrick texts him _what do u need im working and obv cant talk_ as quickly as he can. It doesn’t take long for Jonny to reply.

_where r u? i looked in your office_

_lunch_ Patrick texts back. _wait there, i’ll come get you_

He excuses himself from the room, letting them know he’s got a few emails to reply to before the afternoon session. If any of them can tell that he’s lying, no one call him out on it.

It’s thankfully not a long walk to Patrick’s office, but when reaches it there’s no sign of Jonny. Which, great. Patrick doesn’t want to _think_ about the consequences if Tom finds him wandering around. 

“If I was Jonathan Toews, where would I be?” Patrick wonders outloud.

It takes him a second before he heads in the direction of the equipment rooms.

The equipment rooms are all glass windows—in Patrick’s opinion, kind of stupid in Florida, but they were designed long before he ended up here—and when Patrick spots the two silhouettes, he knows that one of them’s Jonny. The set of Jonny’s shoulders is one that Patrick’s familiar with: it’s his _captain_ stance, and Patrick’s seen it more than most.

The other person—Patrick doesn’t know who that person is. Similar height to Jonny. Maybe a little less bulk. But the sun streaming through the windows only leaves his face in shadows and Patrick’s not familiar enough with any of the prospects to know who it is.

The door to the corridor is open, but Patrick can’t make out what Jonny’s saying in that soft, supportive-but-firm voice he heard Jonny use with so many of their rookies. And if Patrick had his way, Jonny would talk to the entire team like that. Every fucking day.

But Patrick doesn’t have his way, and Jonny’s not part of the team, and he needs to put an end to this before it begins. He doesn’t know what he was thinking yesterday.

Except he _does_ know, and it’s just that he was thinking about what his heart wanted rather than what his head needed. An ongoing problem when faced with Jonathan Toews.

Patrick taps his knuckles on the glass door; both Jonny and the prospect look towards the sound, and Patrick realises that the prospect is Owen Cooper. It makes sense, because Owen has heart eyes for Jonny the same way that Patrick had heart eyes for Sakic when he was a kid. 

“Hey Pat,” Jonny says. “I found Owen.”

Patrick’s not sure if that’s meant to be an explanation to _why_ he’s not in Patrick’s office, but he lets it go. He doesn’t want to argue with Jonny more than he has to.

“Have you been boring him to death with the importance of complex carbs?” Patrick chirps. Jonny grins back automatically. “Because the best solution is just to pretend you’re listening and he’ll shut up in ten minutes.”

“You know you teach that in the nutrition class,” Owen says. His tone is flat but there’s a giveaway twitch to the corner of his mouth. Patrick clearly drafted an _asshole_.

“Oh really?” Jonny says, turning to Patrick. Patrick can tell he’s trying really hard not to laugh. “So I guess you _were_ listening.”

“Guess I’ve spent too long with you,” Patrick says, his smile belying the words. Jonny grins right back at him, and Patrick gets caught in his gaze, the soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the curve to his lips.

“I should—” Patrick hears someone say, and oh. It’s Owen. Patrick had kind of forgotten about him. “I have a thing.”

Patrick isn’t sure if an excuse if Owen really does have a thing; he’s lost track of the many, many things the prospects have this week, at least the ones that aren’t skate. But there’s a flush to his cheeks that wasn’t there before, almost as though he’s embarrassed.

Of what, Patrick’s not sure. But he says goodbye to Owen and wishes him luck for the rest of the week—not that he needs it, he’s the best skater by far—and Jonny does the same. 

Owen stops when he reaches the door, and Patrick can’t take his eyes off him until he speaks.

“Thanks, Jonny,” Owen says before he steps outside. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Jonny replies. Patrick knows Jonny’s being genuine; there’s a warmth in his voice that’s lacking when he’s just being polite.

Owen quickly disappears from sight, and it’s only then that Patrick turns to Jonny.

“You gonna tell me what you guys were talking about?” Patrick asks. Jonny looks around, which is stupid. There’s no one else here and they’d be able to see if anyone was outside, since the walls are made of glass.

“How he jerked off to posters of me when he was in juniors,” Jonny says, his voice low enough that only Patrick would be able to hear him even if there _was_ anyone else here.

“You’re a fucking liar,” Patrick exclaims, pushing Jonny away. Jonny looks smug as fuck, and unfortunately it’s a look that Patrick’s really attracted to. And even more unfortunately, Jonny knows it.

“Maybe,” Jonny admits. “But I know it’s driving you crazy because you have no fucking clue.”

Jonny is, annoyingly right. If there’s one thing that Jonny knows how to do, it’s push all of Patrick’s buttons. He knows that if he pushes them hard enough, Patrick will snap.

Right now, Jonny’s hitting the button for every single floor. Patrick takes a second to try and breathe through the irrational jealousy, but when he opens his eyes it’s still twisting inside of him. 

“So you’re into eighteen year olds now?” Patrick asks, every word tinged with bitterness. He expects a chirp back, something about how Patrick couldn’t handle it like an teenager could, but Jonny’s expression shifts, the smug smile slipping into something softer.

“You gonna do something to change that?” Jonny asks. If Patrick wasn’t as well nuanced in Jonathan Toews, he’d miss how Jonny’s almost pleading with him, his eyes wide and dark as he looks at Patrick for the answer. Like he’s asking Patrick for the olive branch that Patrick’s so desperately clinging to.

And Patrick—he’s never been able to say no to Jonny. So he takes a step forward and kisses him. It’s 100% the stupidest thing he could do: he’s in the middle of a hockey stadium, where there’s a guy who thinks Jonny’s his boyfriend, where anyone could walk in and see them. And yet, when Jonny curls a hand around the back of his neck and opens his mouth against Patrick’s, Patrick doesn’t care.

Because for the first time in _weeks_ , Patrick feels like he can breathe. 

It’s dizzying how quickly it escalates from kissing to Patrick being pushed against the nearest wall; he doesn’t know how he got there, only that there’s suddenly something cold against his back. Jonny’s a solid weight against his chest, mouth seemingly fused to Patrick’s own. His right hand is cupping Patrick’s jaw, his fingers stroking the spot behind his ear that makes Patrick shiver.

It’s too much and not enough, and Patrick melts into Jonny’s touch. He doesn’t resist when Jonny’s hand slides against his chest, his fingers deftly working at the buttons on Patrick’s pants, or when Jonny presses the heel of his hand against his dick. He’s dizzyingly hard, and he _wants_ , and when Jonny sinks to his knees he doesn’t say a word.

Jonny’s smirk is downright _wicked_ as he pulls Patrick’s cock out, and when he softly teases the head of Patrick’s cock with his tongue, Patrick’s head thunks against the wall. Jesus _christ_. He’s forgotten how good Jonny is at this, how well he knows Patrick’s dick. How easy Patrick is for Jonny’s mouth.

Patrick tangles his hand in Jonny’s hair as he makes Patrick fall apart with his talented mouth and his talented fingers, and if Jonny didn’t have a hand pressed against his hip he’s not sure he’d be upright anymore.

He doesn’t feel his orgasm sneaking up on him until he’s _there_ and he doesn’t have time to warn Jonny before he’s coming in Jonny’s mouth, a hand still curled into his hair.

It takes him a minute to blink his way back to reality; when he does, Jonny’s still on his knees, his cheek resting against Patrick’s hip. His lips are red, slightly swollen from sucking Patrick’s cock. Patrick wants to kiss him.

“Hey,” Patrick says, brushing a hand through Jonny’s hair to get his attention. It works; Jonny’s eyes snap to his own and Patrick can see how dark they are, how they’re almost wholly pupil. How the flush of arousal is creeping down Jonny’s neck. If Patrick couldn’t see Jonny’s dick, he’d know how turned on Jonny is and that—that’s hot. “C’mere.”

Jonny’s knee clicks as he gets to his feet, and Patrick winces. There’s a flicker of guilt because he knows his knee’s never really been the same since the surgery, but it disappears once Jonny’s eye level and Patrick can see there’s no trace of pain.

Jonny runs his fingers over the shell of Patrick’s ear; he’s smiling softly, the same one that Patrick sees when Jonny’s all come dumb. It’s strange to see it outside of a bedroom.

“You can get me later,” Jonny murmurs against Patrick’s mouth. He doesn’t give Patrick a chance to reply before they’re kissing again, soft and sweet. Patrick never wants it to end.

“I should go,” he says softly, once they break apart for air. “You gonna hang around here for a while?”

Jonny shakes his head.

“Just wanted to know what you wanted for dinner,” Jonny says. It’s a lie, but Patrick doesn’t call him out on it. “And not that Thai place you’re obsessed with.”

“Surprise me,” Patrick says, before he sneaks another kiss. “But nothing too healthy. I need to keep my strength up.”

“Yeah, you’re a growing boy alright,” Jonny says around a smirk. It’s not a funny joke, too obvious and too high school, and yet Patrick finds himself grinning right along with Jonny.

Just another reminder that he’s never going to not be in love with Jonathan Toews.

*****

Patrick’s riding an orgasm high for the rest of the afternoon, and he can’t even disagree with Tom when Tom says that one of the prospects doesn’t even deserve to be on the ice. It’s a little harsh, maybe, but the kid’s probably never going to make an NHL team unless he works on his skating.

It’s late when he texts Jonny that he’s leaving, letting him know he’s already eaten and hoping that Jonny hasn’t ordered for two. All he gets back is a smiley face in reply, so even if Jonny _has_ , he can’t be too mad about it.

Jonny’s kissing him as soon as Patrick’s closed the door behind him, his fingers digging into Patrick’s hips. He’s sure he’s going to have Jonny shaped bruises, and even the thought makes him smile into the kiss, his mouth opening sweetly below Jonny’s as Jonny’s tongue flicks against his lower lip, biting down gently in a way that makes Patrick whimper.

He’s easy for Jonny—always has been—but Jonny’s kisses make him weak at the knees, make him dizzy with want, and Patrick doesn’t realise he’s being led towards the couch until the back of his knees hit it. Jonny pushes him down, their mouths breaking apart for a second until Jonny’s climbing into Patrick’s lap, his hand curling around Patrick’s jaw.

Except it’s not what Patrick wants. Normally he’d be happy to be kissed as long as Jonny wants to kiss him but right now Patrick wants his mouth on Jonny’s cock, wants to feel the weight on his tongue, wants Jonny’s hands in his hair, swearing in soft French as he comes. 

“Hey,” Patrick says, pushing Jonny away and sliding out from underneath him. Jonny looks stunning, like he’s not really sure what’s happening, and the penny only seems to drop when Patrick drops to his knees. He pushes Jonny’s thighs apart so he can kneel between them, tugging at the shorts until Jonny lifts his hips and they slide down to reveal Jonny’s cock.

Jonny’s fully hard, his cock thick and full against his belly, and Patrick wants his mouth all over it. He grins as he leans forward, pressing a kiss to Jonny’s balls before he licks a stripe from base to tip, pressing kisses to the spongy head before he licks the same stripe down.

“Jesus,” Jonny says, followed by something in French that Patrick doesn’t understand. Patrick grins, repeating the action again and again until all Jonny’s begging him to suck him, and he carefully holds Jonny’s cock as he takes as much as he can into his mouth, swallowing carefully until Jonny’s cock is bumping the back of his throat.

There’s a certain irony in how much Patrick’s loves this; he’d been chirped in juniors for having a cock sucking mouth, but Patrick hadn’t known how much he’d enjoy the weight of a cock in his mouth then, and he’d always rolled his eyes and scored on them four times to make them shut up. Now—now it’s undeniable; sucking Jonny off has always turned him on more than eating out any girl did.

His own cock pressing is against the zipper on his pants, and he palms himself for some relief; it doesn’t quite work, not with the way Jonny’s hand curls into his hair before sliding down to his jaw, his fingers pressing against Patrick’s throat. He breathes, once, _twice_ , before he pulls back a little, sucking gently on the head before he wraps his right hand around the base of Jonny’s cock.

“Wait,” Jonny says, voice broken, his eyes wild. “I want—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, just groans as Patrick twists his hand.

“I want to fuck you,” Jonny says. “And we’re not kids anymore.”

_I can’t fuck you again if I come right now_ , Patrick fills in. He presses a kiss to the tip of Jonny’s cock, fluttering his eyelashes. It gets nothing more than an eyeroll from Jonny, and before Patrick’s even had a real chance to breathe, Jonny’s dragging him to his feet..

It doesn’t take long before Jonny’s mouth is pressed against his again, his hand curled around Patrick’s hip, his fingers stroking over the soft skin above his waistband. It makes Patrick's dizzy with want, unable to think about anything other than Jonny’s hands holding onto Patrick hips as he fucks him, and he _needs_ to get them to a bed before he begs Jonny to fuck him over the back of the couch.

Jonny follows his lead to the bottom of the stairs, pressing Patrick against the railing, the top of it digging uncomfortably into the top of his back. It doesn’t stop Jonny from leaving a trail of kisses along Patrick’s jaw, and Patrick’s _sure_ that Jonny’s about to lead him up the stairs except Jonny’s mouth meets his own again, each kiss like a promise that Jonny intends to fill.

“C’mon,” Patrick mumbles between kisses. He tries to duck away but Jonny’s having none of it, and they stumble up the stairs together, Jonny’s mouth not leaving Patrick’s own. It works until it doesn’t, and Patrick feels one of his feet slip out from under him before he has time to react. The handrail is air under his hand, and he’s bracing himself for a fall until there’s a pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist, Jonny’s dark eyes searching his own to make sure he’s okay.

“I got you,” Jonny says.

“Always,” Patrick replies softly. It’s stupid and sappy and probably too much, but it’s also _Jonny_ , and there’s only so much Patrick can keep to himself.

They make it to the bedroom without any more mishaps, and Jonny leads Patrick to the bed with his hand curled in Patrick’s tie. It’s the same way he used to pull Patrick in for a kiss before games, the same press of fingers just above Patrick’s collar, and Patrick’s still just as weak for it as he ever was.

“Get undressed,” Jonny says, and Patrick shivers. He’s still just as weak for Jonny too.

Patrick takes his pants off first, carefully folding the and placing them on the chair. His shirt’s next, unbuttoning it from the bottom, and once he reaches the top one he looks up. Jonny’s watching him, a dark red flush staining his cheeks and the back of his neck, spreading across his now bare chest. Patrick grins, shimmying out of the shirt, adding a hip wiggle he knows will make Jonny laugh.

“You’re such a dumbass,” Jonny says fondly, shaking his head.

It doesn’t matter if Patrick was going to protest, because the words are drowned out by Jonny’s mouth, a smile pressed against Patrick’s own.

They tumble to the bed, Jonny trying to free Patrick of his last remains of clothing, and once he’s done Jonny can’t seen to look anywhere else. Patrick flushes under his gaze; it’s _always_ too much and somehow it’s not enough, and when Jonny reaches out and runs a hand across his chest, his fingers grazing his nipple, Patrick has to look away.

There’s the familiar sound of the bedside drawer opening, Jonny’s weight looming over him in a promise, and when Patrick looks back, all he can see is Jonny’s, his eyes crinkled in the way that they do, looking at Patrick in the way he always does. Like Jonny loves him.

It’s not something Patrick can dwell on. Not something he _wants_ to dwell on right now. Not when Jonny’s in his bed, still in as good shape as he ever was, and as Patrick traces the lines of his abdominal muscles, Jonny leans down to kiss him.

Jonny’s mouth is softer against his own, but no less needy; Patrick whimpers as Jonny bites down softly on his lower lip, rolling his hips up to meet Jonny’s. It shouldn’t be this good, not when he’s done this a thousand times, but even the grind of his cock against Jonny’s stomach makes stars dance before his eyes, and he wraps his legs around Jonny’s waist in a silent plea for more.

There’s the familiar click of the lube cap, and then the familiar press of Jonny’s fingers against his hole. It’s _cold_ , Jonny’s other hand still tangled in Patrick’s hair, and Patrick squirms against Jonny’s hand as he slowly slides one finger inside.

“Sorry,” Jonny murmurs against his lips, but Patrick’s already forgotten what Jonny’s apologising for, his hole already clenching around Jonny’s finger like it’s not quite enough.

“More,” Patrick demands, and Jonny obliges, carefully adding a second finger, stretching Patrick out oh-so-slowly in the same way that he always does.

_’m not gonna hurt you_ Jonny had told him once, except right now Patrick’s not sure if he can wait; his cock’s hard against his belly, leaking every time Jonny’s fingers skim over that magic spot inside of him, except Patrick wants Jonny’s cock to be hitting his prostate on every stroke, lighting up his body until all of his nerves feel like they’re on fire.

“I’m ready,” he tells Jonny. “Fuck me.”

There’s a second where Jonny looks like he’s about to protest, but instead Jonny shakes his head, the head of his cock pressing against Patrick’s hole almost immediately. There’s a second of hesitation before he pushes inside, and Patrick’s hands curl into the sheets as Jonny bottoms out, Jonny’s mouth pressed against his collarbone as they both struggle to catch their breath.

Jonny’s mouth catches Patrick’s own as he starts to move, a slow roll of his hips that leaves Patrick a puddle of jello beneath him, heat pooling in his stomach as Jonny hits his prostate with every stroke. Patrick pulls Jonny closer, tangles his fingers into Jonny’s hair until their mouths meet; it traps Patrick’s cock between their bellies, the hint of friction not quite enough, and Patrick slides a hand beneath them.

Jonny _growls_ and bats Patrick’s hand away; he jerks him off in the same, steady rhythm as his hips, and Patrick knows it’s not going to take much until he’s coming. _Everything_ is too much; there’s Jonny’s cock in his ass and his hand on his dick, and it’s been _months_ since he’s been fucked, and the Jonny who stars in his fantasy never lives up to the real thing.

This time his orgasm doesn’t sneak up on him; it builds and builds until Patrick has to come _now_ or he’s gonna die. Jonny smirks, but the snap of his hips becomes more erratic, the hand on Patrick’s cock speeding up, and Patrick comes with a strangled cry between them, his come coating his stomach in thick spurts.

Three more thrusts and Jonny’s following him over the edge, his face pressed into Patrick’s neck as he shakes apart. He doesn’t move afterwards, just lets Patrick absorb his weight, and Patrick curls an arm around Jonny’s shoulders, his fingers tangled in Jonny’s hair.

Patrick feels empty when Jonny’s cock slips from his hole, and he must make some kind of noise as Jonny’s cock is replaced with his fingers. It’s almost too much, each brush over Patrick’s hole sending shivers up his spine and right to his spent cock, but he can’t help but push back against Jonny’s hand until he feels _full_ again.

Jonny pulls him close, one hand awkwardly trapped between them, the other slung over Patrick’s waist. He pushes a leg between Patrick’s own, curls their ankles around each other and even if Patrick wanted to move, there’s nowhere to go. He’s missed this more than the sex and if he’s asked he’d deny it, but _this_ is his favorite Jonny. When he’s sex stupid and handsy and he’s no one else’s but Patrick’s.

“Go to sleep,” Jonny says, his voice low against Patrick’s ear.

“Don’t wanna,” Patrick slurs, but he can feel himself getting closer with every too loud breath in his ear, and he doesn’t hear what Jonny says next.

*****

Jonny’s already in the kitchen when Patrick stumbles down the stairs. There’s a normal Jonny mess spread across the counters, but Patrick spies a cup of coffee in the middle that’s got his name on it.

He wants to cradle it in his hands and soak in the caffeine-laden scent, but before his communing-with coffee ritual he should probably thank Jonny.

Patrick slides an arm around his waist and presses a kiss to the back of his neck, slurring a thanks against Jonny’s skin. It takes a second for Patrick to realise that Jonny’s deadly still beneath him, his body fraught with tension.

Patrick knows what’s coming.

It never makes it any easier.

“Don’t,” Patrick says, pre-empting Jonny’s _we can’t do this_ that he’s heard too many times to count. That he never wants to hear again. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Unless anything’s changed—” Jonny starts, but Patrick covers Jonny’s mouth with his hand.

“You know the answer to that,” Patrick says softly. “Can I get my breakfast to go?”

Jonny nods, and Patrick takes another second to appreciate Jonny wrapped against him before he untangles himself. He makes himself busy by cleaning up after Jonny, and once the counters are cleaned and the dishwasher is loaded, Jonny’s holding out a box of _something_ in his direction. It looks kind of like an omelette, but—

“It’s a spinach and bacon polenta egg casserole,” Jonny says. “And don’t give me that face. It’s good for you. And it’s reheatable. The rest—”

“Freezer, I got it,” Patrick says. It gets a twisted smile from Jonny, one Patrick doesn’t want to look at too closely. “Will I see you tonight?”

“Couldn’t get a flight until tomorrow,” Jonny mumbles. He doesn’t look at Patrick when he says it.

“Okay,” Patrick replies. He doesn’t know if Jonny wants him to call out the lie or not. “You need me to bring anything home?”

Jonny shakes his head. Patrick wants to say something— _anything_ —to break the awkward silence between them, but instead he just takes the box from Jonny’s outstretched hand and heads towards the door.

Patrick’s hand is on the doorknob when Jonny says his name. Patrick’s helpless to do anything but look back, and then Jonny’s right _there_ , and he’s reaching towards Patrick’s face, and—

Patrick can’t breathe as Jonny straightens Patrick’s tie, his heart hammering in his chest as Jonny’s fingers brush against his throat.

“It was crooked,” Jonny says softly. Patrick’s breath catches in his throat, because he _knows_ that tone. It’s the same one Jonny uses when he thinks Patrick’s asleep and he murmurs _I love yous_ against Patrick’s skin.

“Thanks,” he replies, and slips out of the door before he can say something he’s going to regret.

The day goes from bad to worse—at one point, Patrick has to defend wanting to give a spot in training camp to Cooper which is the stupidest thing he’s had to do for months—and by the time he’s told fifteen prospects that they won’t be making it to the NHL this year, all he wants to do is get drunk and maybe get laid.

With Jonny at home, neither of those are going to be possible. The best he can hope for is that Jonny hasn’t drunk all of the beer that was in his refrigerator.

There’s nothing to say to Jonny when he gets home, and they eat dinner in silence, the scrape of silverware against china the only sound filling the room. Patrick gets done eating first and he doesn’t wait for Jonny to finish, just heads to the kitchen and starts clearing Jonny’s mess away. He’s halfway done when he hears footsteps in the doorway.

“I can finish that,” Jonny says. He looks uncomfortable standing there, like he doesn’t know if he’s welcome any more. It’s not a good look on Jonny: Patrick would never admit it to Jonny’s face, but he likes the bossy, confident asshole he fell in love with. Not someone who doesn’t know if they belong.

“It’s fine,” Patrick says. It _is_ fine, and not just because he hates how Jonny loads the dishwasher.

“I can get a hotel, if—” Jonny starts, but Patrick’s quick to shake his head.

“ _No_ ,” Patrick says. “Just—go find me something dumb to watch. And maybe grab a couple of beers.”

Jonny gives him a mock salute before he starts rummaging through Patrick’s refrigerator. Patrick doesn’t hear him leave, just wipes the counters and makes sure the dishwasher’s running before following Jonny into the living room.

Jonny’s found a rerun of _Friends_ in what Patrick thinks might be an homage to their days of rooming together. He suspects Jonny might be streaming said episode of _Friends_ , since it’s in Patrick’s top ten episodes, and he’s grateful that Jonny’s picked something that he doesn't need to pay too much attention too.

“Gold star,” Patrick murmurs, taking his beer from the table and holding it out to Jonny to clink. Jonny rolls his eyes, but indulges him anyway, and Patrick can’t help but notice the soft smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

It’s that which gives him the courage to slide along the couch until he’s curled up next to Jonny, his feet tucked under him. There’s a second where Jonny looks like he’s going to protest, but the rebuttal doesn’t come. Instead Jonny wraps an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and pulls him closer, pressing a barely-there kiss to his ear.

“You wanna talk about it?” Jonny says softly. Patrick considers it before he shakes his head. He doesn’t think he wants to talk about it any more.

“No,” Patrick replies. “This is good.”

Jonny doesn’t reply in words, just commandeers Patrick’s hand and links their fingers together. Patrick breathes in the familiar scent of spices and laundry detergent that’s uniquely Jonny, and tells himself that they’re gonna be okay.

*****

The smell of caffeine drags Patrick out of bed the next morning, and it’s only when he gets to his coffee machine that he realises Jonny’s left without even saying goodbye. He mulls it over while he lets the caffeine absorb into his veins, and while it hurts that Jonny left without saying a word, he knows exactly _why_ Jonny did it.

Because the last time Patrick left Winnipeg, he did the same thing. Saying goodbye is something that never gets easier.

This mood doesn’t disappear during the day; he snaps at his assistant when he doesn’t mean to, and ends up going out to grab a cupcake from her favorite bakery during lunch. He’s not sure if Melanie accepts the apology, but at least she’s not looking at him like she’s going to quit in the next five seconds.

It doesn’t help that he can’t agree with any of his team over one of the goaltenders, and it’s Patrick who eventually has to acquiesce and give him the invitation that Patrick doesn’t think he deserves.

He’s on his way home when he gets Jonny’s message, but he doesn’t look at it until one of the meals that Jonny’s prepared for him is defrosting in the microwave. It’s a photo of a wall of Jets merchandise, accompanied by a frowny face emoji, and Patrick realises he must have only just landed since it must be in Winnipeg airport.

It would be easy to chirp the Jets—and by association, Winnipeg—but Patrick doesn’t have the heart.

He types out _glad u made it ok_ before he deletes the words and slips the phone back into his pocket. Jumping right back into being _just friends_ with Jonny isn’t something he’s ever able to do, and Jonny knows it.

Instead he puts the defrosted meal into the refrigerator and orders a pizza that definitely isn’t personal size. It’s about the only _fuck Jonny_ he can manage right now.

****

July 1st comes around too soon for Patrick’s liking; he likes putting teams together, figuring out who clicks with who, but talking to agents has never been his strong point. He’d got some pointers from Stan on how to deal with the never ending phone calls and the wheeling and dealing required, but he’s not sure it helped him. He’s good at figuring out who he _wants_ on their team. He’s not so great at negotiating with the current version of Pat Brisson.

Especially since most of the calls last year were from aging guys who just wanted to play a few more years.

This year is more of the same: Patrick putting out feelers, but not getting much of a response. At least the constant stream of calls are a distraction from thinking about Jonny.

What they really need is a solid d-man for their second pairing. Ideally someone who shoots left, but Patrick’s not really picky about that part. He’s called every agent he needs to, some of them more than once since there’s a couple of guys he thinks he might persuade, but there comes a point where it’s a waiting game more than anything else.

Patrick’s been sent for a round of coffee when his cell rings. He pulls the phone out of his pocket thinking that it’s Jonny, except the number is unknown. There’s a few seconds where he debates _not_ answering but there are plenty of people still playing who have his number or know how to get it, and he slides to answer the call.

“Patrick Kane speaking.” 

“Hey, uh, hi,” the person on the other end says. It’s not a voice that Patrick recognises, and he’s about to hang up when the caller continues. “It’s Jack, uh, Jack McAdams? I was hoping we could talk about your offer.”

“Hi Jack,” Patrick says. There’s a swooping in his stomach that makes him feel suddenly nauseous, and his closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Either McAdams is the politest hockey player in the world, and calling each GM to say thanks but no thanks, or he’s actually interested in signing.

He really fucking hopes it’s the second.

“I was close to signing with New York,” McAdams says. “They offered nine point five for eight years. I know you can’t match that. But—if we can get near that…”

“Why _aren’t_ you signing with them?” Patrick asks. Because McAdams is right. He can’t do nine and a half for eight. But he might be able to do ten for seven. Shit. He should know this.

“When I was twelve, my cousin killed himself because he was gay. He was seventeen. When you lose family like that, it doesn’t stop hurting. If Cooper playing makes a difference to at least one other kid—that’s a good thing. I want to be part of that.”

“I’ll get in touch with your agent, we’ll see what we can do,” Patrick says. Jesus. He didn’t expect that to come out of McAdams’s mouth. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks, Mr Kane,” McAdams says. There’s a click on the other end, and Patrick takes a moment to make sure the hallway is empty before he drops to one knee and fistpumps.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs. “Holy fucking shit.”

Patrick almost skips back to his office, the coffee long forgotten until he steps through the door and is greeted with three expectant faces.

“No coffee?” Tom asks.

“Sorry,” Patrick says, unable to keep the grin off his face. “But you’re not gonna need coffee when I tell you who’s gonna be playing in Florida next year.”

There’s a lot of high fiving and _holy shit_ s and hugging once Patrick tells them that McAdams wants to sign, and then it’s a few hours of number crunching and back and forth with McAdams’s agent before Patrick’s got a copy of the $70 million contract in his inbox, McAdams’s scrawl sitting on the bottom of it.

Once the rest of his team have left for the evening, Patrick opens his bottom drawer. There’s an unopened bottle of whiskey sitting in there, one which was Fedexed to him by Jonny once his office was set up. It’s sure to be the most expensive bottle of whiskey that Patrick’s ever going to own, because Jonny never does things by halves.

But if there’s ever a time to celebrate with a drink that most people couldn’t afford, he figures this must be it.

He fishes it out of the drawer, along with one of the glasses. He’s about to open the bottle when he’s accosted with the images of what could have been: Jonny as his head coach; Jonny laughing with him, drinking with him, his feet on Patrick’s desk; Jonny by his side as his friend, as his teammate, as his partner.

Instead he’s got an empty chair and silence. No one ever told Patrick it was so lonely at the top.

Patrick puts the whiskey back into the drawer. Maybe he should leave himself a note: _dead dove, do not eat_.

*****

The start of hockey summer means Mexico, and Patrick spends two weeks drinking cocktails out of pineapples and soaking up too much sun before the alcohol catches up to him. He returns to Florida with a headache and pink tinged skin, and if he’s honest with himself he should have left both looks back in his twenties.

It takes him three days to get restless, and instead of flying to Canada like he wants, he goes to Buffalo. It’s the first time he’s seen his parents in months—his dad isn’t allowed to fly any more, even if he wanted to—and they’re mostly recipients of a weekly Skype conversation and Patrick agreeing with his dad’s text breakdown of the Panthers latest game.

Patrick’s learned to accept that his dad is always going to try and be involved in his career, but it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. There hadn’t been a single text from him on draft day after he’d suggested that Patrick take a left winger in the first round, wholly different from the previous year, and it’s not difficult for Patrick to work out why.

So it doesn’t surprise him when it’s Jackie who greets him at the airport with a hug, her youngest daughter in tow. Patrick makes Jackie pick up his case while he carries Ellie, making silly faces at her as they walk to the car, Jackie grumbling that she has to do all of the heavy lifting.

“Dad’s mad at you,” Jackie says once she’s out of the parking lot. “Every time someone mentions you he looks like he’s about to take a shit.”

Patrick can’t help but laugh, even though it’s not really what he wants to hear. He knows exactly why his dad’s upset with him.

“Language,” he chastises, even though Ellie’s busy chewing on her fist and isn’t paying attention to them.

“You’re not even gonna give me a hint?” Jackie says. Patrick shakes his head, trying to figure out exactly what to tell Jackie that isn’t going to be blabbed across the entire Kane family.

“Probably mad I didn’t take his advice at the draft,” he says after a pause. “He thought we needed a left wing. I thought we needed a center.”

Jackie’s face does a _thing_ that Patrick doesn’t want to think about too much. She’s really the only one of his sisters that still follows hockey. Erica’s son plays a little, but the Kane legacy isn’t going to be a Sutter situation. Patrick’s kind of glad. Four Stanley Cups is a lot of pressure.

“You think he’s ever going to figure out you’re good at your job because of you?” Jackie asks him.

Patrick shrugs. He’s long since given up on understanding his dad’s relationship with his career. Jonny told him once that his dad was _weirdly invested_ which—which is a route he doesn't want to go down. Jonny has a lot of opinions on things he doesn’t understand.

“I don’t think that’s it, Jacks,” he replies. “It’s just dad, you know?”

He watches Jackie bite back a reply, one which he’s heard from his sisters before. It’s not like Patrick wanted to be the prodigal son, and he definitely didn’t ask their dad to take more interest in Patrick’s aging hockey career than any of Patrick’s nieces and nephews. But it happened anyway.

“I just—” Jackie starts, but instead of finishing her sentence, she shakes her head. “Mom and dad are meeting us at Tony’s. You okay with that?”

Patrick’s _never_ going to say no to Tony’s, and after he’s polished off the best pizza he’s had in a year he helps Ellie with her crayoning while his parents ask Jackie about going back to work. Patrick lets himself slip into the crayoning zone until he hears his name.

“Huh?” he asks, because he has no idea what his dad just asked him.

“I asked you if Jonny was coming down this summer,” his dad says, and Patrick’s stomach sinks.

“He came down over development camp,” Patrick replies, trying not to let his traitorous heart into the conversation. “So probably not.”

“Shame. That boy’s always been a good influence on you.”

Patrick tries hard not to roll his eyes. He’s not sure if his dad knew that he’s been sleeping with Jonny for the best part of fifteen years that he’d have the same opinion. Actually, he _knows_ he wouldn’t.

“He got any ideas about your team?” his dad continues.

“Some,” Patrick says, trying to keep his tone mild. “He thought I made a good choice at the draft.”

His dad makes a non committal sound, and Patrick can’t tell if it’s just that his dad thinks they’re both wrong or that his dad can’t believe that Jonny agreed with Patrick over his draft choices.

“Pretty sure we agreed to leave the hockey talk at home,” Jackie mumbles.

“Sorry, Jooks,” Patrick says, even though his dad’s the one who brought it up. When his dad doesn’t apologise there’s a strained silence between the group. Patrick wonders what he’s missed while he’s been in Florida: clearly there’s something going on between Jackie and their parents, but he doesn’t want to get into it at Tony’s.

Instead he hunts the waitress down for the check, and once he’s paid he barely has time to give his niece a kiss before Jackie’s fleeing the restaurant.

On the way back to his parent’s house he texts Jackie _Talk later?_ , but he doesn’t get a reply. He hopes it because she’s busy with Ellie, rather than because she’s pissed he’s going to be the focus of his family’s attention again.

*****

It takes four hours for his dad to make a comment about Owen Cooper, and it takes everything in Patrick not to tell him that he’s being a homophobic asshole. Instead, he tells his father about how well Cooper played in development camp, pulls up a couple of videos from his phone.

Instead of agreeing with Patrick, his dad points out that Cooper’s winger is holding his own.

Patrick diplomatically tells him that the same winger didn’t even manage a shot on goal last year at camp, and most of his improvement is a result of playing with a mini Tazer. His dad hmms what may or may not be an agreement, but he doesn’t press the issue any further. Instead he switches the conversation to Patrick signing McAdams, telling Patrick how he thought that he was a “lock” to sign in New York.

“Sometimes things change,” Patrick says. “He wanted to be in Florida.”

“The Rangers are a better team, son,” his father says. Patrick has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, because of course they fucking are. “McAdams leaving makes them a worse one, but they’ve been to the cup finals the last two years.”

_Haven’t actually won a cup though_ , Patrick thinks. Although the Rangers had some tough puck luck this year. Even Patrick was sure it’d be theirs.

“Maybe he wanted to play for me,” Patrick says. McAdams hadn’t gone public with the real reason he’s signed with Florida, and for now Patrick wants to keep it that way. He _especially_ doesn’t want his dad to hear about it right now, because he knows there’d be something vaguely homophobic disguised as an insult coming out of his mouth.

“I’m sure he won’t be the only one,” his dad says, taking Patrick’s words as the gospel truth they aren’t. “You’ve got more cups than most of the NHL.”

It’s not untrue, but it’s not like he’s out there on the ice. He’s almost certain it didn’t factor into McAdams’s decision. You can make a difference as a GM, depending on the choices you make, but it’s nothing like changing the flow of a game with a sweet goal.

“You planning on coming down this year?” Patrick asks. It doesn’t surprise Patrick when his dad shakes his head. They’d made the drive once last year, for the home opener. It had taken them three days and his dad almost hadn’t made it to the rink after being confined to a car for so long.

“I’ll be there when you play here though,” his dad says. And Patrick knows he will be. Probably in a Panthers jersey that says KANE on the back, an 88 sitting underneath it.

He’d much rather his dad wear the blank jersey Patrick had shipped to him, or even one with the name of someone actually _on_ the team on the back. He tried talking to his dad about it after a game last year, but his dad brushed him aside, telling Patrick how he still has a place on the team, even if it’s not on the ice, and plenty of people have their own names on the back of their jerseys.

It’s never an argument he’s going to win, so Patrick turns a blind eye to it.

“Let me know how many seats you need,” Patrick starts. “But if uncle Dave turns up in a Sabres jersey again—”

“Kane jerseys only,” his dad promises, which is about the best that Patrick can hope for. “You got any more highlights?”

Patrick does; he hooks his phone up to the tv so they don’t have to crowd around the tiny screen, and even once his dad’s asleep, snoring softly, Patrick doesn’t turn them off. He might as well get some work done while he’s here.


	2. Chapter 2

The summer seems too long and yet not long enough; he’s still trying to figure out hotel arrangements for training camp when the prospect tournament comes around. It’s being held in Tampa this year, even though Tom and some of the rest of his team are flying, Patrick had wanted to take the bus.

It’s easy to make himself almost invisible, curling into the seat in the back row. Spencer’s a few rows in front of him, the rest of the coaching staff even further forward, and Patrick figures he’s okay to put his headphones in and finish what really needed to be done back in Sunrise.

Once he’s done he lets the sound of twenty five overly excited college aged kids wash over him. It’s been a long time since he took a five hour bus ride to a game and it throws him back to being in London with Sam. It feels like a different lifetime, one where he had nothing to worry about other than how many goals he could score. He’s not really sure he belongs here anymore.

Once they reach Tampa Patrick lets everyone else get off the bus before he even tries to grab his stuff. He takes his time, expecting to be alone once he finally climbs down the stairs, but instead he sees Owen Cooper there.

Which is weird, he thought _all_ of them would want to get a start on all of the alcohol they’re not meant to have, but inevitably will anyway.

Owen brightens when he sees Patrick, like he’s been patiently waiting for Patrick to appear.

“Mr Kane?” Owen asks. He sounds hesitant, like he’s not meant to be talking to the big scary GM. Patrick might need to remind him of that open door policy.

“Mr Kane’s my father. The name’s Kaner,” Patrick says, but Owen just blinks at him. God, Patrick feels old. Do kids these days not grow up on Disney? “What’s up, kid?”

“Uh, I got my room assignment but—I wanted to check, because it’s my own room.”

And _oh_. Patrick had left the room assignments to Spencer this year, and he’s not sure it’s a coincidence or not. But if it’s not—he probably agrees with Spencer that Owen having his own room is a good idea, at least until they can figure out which prospects don’t care that he’s gay.

“Looks like you lucked out,” Patrick says, trying to be reassuring. “I wouldn’t get used to it.”

“Okay,” Owen says, but his face doesn’t say that anything’s okay. “It’s not—”

“No,” Patrick says. “You’ll have a roommate in training camp.”

“If I get there,” Owen says. Patrick laughs, because this kid is delusional if he thinks he’s not getting to camp.

“You’ve got three games, yeah?” Patrick says, knowing that they do, in fact, have three games. “Wanna make a bet?” Owen looks hesitant for a second before agreeing. “If you get less than six goals, I’ll give you fifty bucks.”

“A bet works two ways,” Owen says. Patrick can see the mental eyeroll. _Teenagers_.

“Fine, if you score less than six times, I’ll give you fifty bucks. Six or more goals—you can buy me dinner once you’ve played your first game in the NHL.”

“Done,” Owen says. “As long as McDonald’s counts as dinner.”

“Don’t count on it,” Patrick says, grinning as he holds his hand out for Owen to shake. Patrick watches a little of the tension bleed out of Owen’s shoulders, and he’s reminded of a young Jonathan Toews, trying to win games all by himself, taking each loss harder than the last. “And what I said at the draft—if you need anything, just let me know. I’ve been there.”

“Maybe not _exactly_ here,” Owen says, and Patrick can’t help but laugh.

He doesn’t know how wrong he is.

*****

Owen scores eight goals in six periods of hockey and Spencer benches him for the last game. It’s a decision that Patrick fully supports; Owen’s shown he can play with almost anyone on his wing. They need to figure out who looks good without Owen Cooper.

Owen doesn’t dress for the final game. Instead he gets to sit in the press box with Patrick and the rest of his team, along with one of their best defensive prospects who’d fractured his finger in the second game. He’d looked good until that point too, and Patrick’s pretty unhappy that he’s not going to see more of Johannsson this camp.

Owen and Johannsson are pretty quiet during the first period, mostly keeping to themselves other than alternate runs to the buffet, but at least to Patrick’s eye, they’re keeping up a quiet but steady conversation. 

Patrick interrupts that during the intermission; Johannsson’s at the food table, and Owen’s engrossed in his phone, so he takes the opportunity to slip into Johannsson’s seat. There’s a second where Owen’s clearly surprised to see Patrick there, but he just takes a quick look at Johannsson before he relaxes. 

“Chill, he’s not gonna run off with your food,” Patrick says, and it gets a laugh out of Owen. “Just came to get your thoughts on the game so far.”

Owen chews the inside of his mouth, a tick that Patrick is all too familiar with from years of interviews.

“It’d be better if I was down there,” he says eventually. Patrick can’t help but laugh, because that is _not_ what he was expecting.

“Any thoughts that aren’t _really fucking obvious_?”

“Murray needs a different center. Someone faster.”

 _Someone more like me_ Patrick fills in.

“You played pretty well with him,” Patrick says, which is the understatement of the century. They’d racked up 20 points between them in two games. Owen ducks his head, clearly a little embarrassed, which is stupid. He’s earned that praise on his own. “Anyone else you like?”

Owen pauses for a second before he suggests that another couple of years in the minors would be good for their best goaltending prospect, and they’re discussing the line roulette that Spencer’s trying in this game when Johannsson returns.

He hesitates for a second, clearly weighing up if he should ask Patrick to get out of his seat or just sit somewhere else. Finding somewhere else to sit eventually wins out, and he takes the seat to Patrick’s right, awkwardly handling Owen his plate across Patrick.

“They were out of the sausage things,” Johannsson says. “If you want something else, I‘ll—”

“It’s fine,” Owen says around a mouthful of nachos. “This is good.”

While Owen devours his nachos—with fake cheese, gross—Patrick turns to Johannsson. He’s a couple of years older than Owen, and Patrick knows he went through this last year and ended up in the OHL. He likes Johannsson’s progress though; he’s worked hard on his skating, and when Patrick tells him so, he laughs.

“Last year, you tell me to work on it. So I did.”

Patrick likes that, likes the ease in which he admits he listened to someone and worked on his weaknesses. He knows it’s not easy to do when you’ve been told that you’re special for as long as you can remember.

They’re discussing his fractured finger when Patrick’s tapped on the shoulder; he’s a little surprised when he turns around and finds Tom there, but he’s _less_ surprised when he realises that Tom’s mad as hell.

“Patrick,” he says in that flat, toneless way of his. “Can we talk?”

“Sorry, boys,” Patrick says as he excuses himself. Tom walks them far enough away from the two prospects that they’re not going to be overheard, and waits for whatever shit is about to fall out of Tom’s mouth. 

“Did you forget that you’re not part of the team anymore?” Tom asks him, and even if Patrick hadn’t spent over a year having to deal with him, he’d clearly be able to hear the ice in his voice.

“I think we’re all part of the same team,” he manages to say through gritted teeth. Even though he wishes that Tom _wasn’t_.

“You’re not playing any more Patrick, do you think most GMs cosy up to their prospects?”

“I don’t give a fuck what most GMs do,” Patrick says. It’s true. Stan had been great helping him learn the ropes, but he wants to be his own person, not fit the tried and tested mold that the NHL is too fond of. He thinks if Viola had wanted that for the team, he wouldn’t have chosen Patrick Kane. He’d probably have chosen someone like Tom. “They’ve been playing with the guys down there. They might be able to pick up on things we _can’t_.”

“That’s what video review is for,” Tom says. Patrick takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair.

“It’s still not the same as being on the ice. I’m sure even you can figure that out. So I’d like to hear a little more about what _they_ think about the people they’ve been playing with. What works. Who’s clicking.” _If there are any assholes_ , Patrick doesn’t add. “So I’m sure that Rowe did exactly what was ‘right’. But I’m not him. And if you want to talk about this any more, we can do it when we’re back in Sunrise.”

Tom opens his mouth as thought he’s about to say something but clearly thinks better of it and shakes his head instead.

“Whatever, Patrick. I’ll be over there with the grown ups if you want to have an adult discussion.”

 _Breathe_ , Jonny’s voice says in his head. _You’re better than this._

Patrick agrees with the Jonny-voice, and turns around without saying another word to Tom. Johannsson’s slid over a seat so he’s sitting next to Owen again, a plate of food between them that they’re now both eating off. It makes him smile, and instead of intruding on their moment, he brushes past Tom as he walks over to the rest of his team.

He can always talk to the prospects when they’re back in Sunrise.

*****

Tampa’s under flood watch when the game ends, and it’s deemed too dangerous to drive back to south Florida in the thunderstorm. There aren’t enough rooms for all of them in the same hotel they’ve been staying in, and Patrick ends up having to check into a hotel down the street along with a few others. Thankfully, Tom isn’t one of them.

Without thinking he opens up the messaging folder on his phone and types _fml_ to Jonny. It’s only once he’s hit send that he realises the last message he got from Jonny was that photo he sent from the Winnipeg airport. They haven’t spoken in months. He knows Jonny’s not dead because he’s still in the core Hawks group chat that’s never died, and Patrick’s seen photos of some very European looking landmarks with Jonny in them.

But this is the longest they’ve gone without talking in—maybe since they were rookies. And it clearly hasn’t helped Patrick one bit, not when the first person he thought of when he needs to vent is fucking _Jonny_.

It only takes a few minutes for Jonny to reply, a quick _u ok? Saw the storms in fl, glad it’s not worse_

Patrick suddenly, desperately wants to see Jonny’s face and he hits the Facetime button on his phone.

Jonny picks up in three seconds. He looks unfairly good, tan and happy and relaxed, and Patrick wasn’t quite prepared for how much seeing Jonny’s face would make him want.

“You okay Peeks?” Jonny says, the nickname almost drowned out by something which sounds like an engine. Probably still in Lake of the Woods then, sitting on his back porch.

“Just— _no_ ,” Patrick says, and it all comes out in a rush: how he’s stuck in Tampa until the storm passes, how much he hates Tom, how he wishes the NHL still wasn’t stuck in 1960.

Jonny listens, like he’s so good at doing, and when Patrick’s done he takes a few minutes to collect his thoughts.

“Cooper having trouble?” he asks, frowning.

“Haven’t heard anything,” Patrick says honestly. He’s pretty sure Spencer would have told him if any of the guys were talking shit. “He was with us in the press box today, with Johannsson. They were pretty buddy buddy.”

Jonny mouths the words _buddy buddy_ back at him, like he can’t believe he used them in a sentence.

“That’s good, yeah?” Jonny asks. Patrick nods. It _is_ good, but here he’s got a bunch of guys that want their place on an NHL team they’re scared of fucking up. When they get to actual training camp—

“Maybe this was a stupid choice,” Patrick says. “Maybe they were all right to pass on him.”

“ _Patrick_ ,” Jonny says, fond and concerned and admonishing all at once. “Do I need to give you my captain speech again?”

“Maybe,” Patrick admits. He’s always been better with Jonny by his side. “What the fuck am I doing, Taze?”

“Well,” Jonny says, pausing for dramatic effect. “Captain Toews would tell you that you’re doing a good thing. And you are, Pat. No one else was gonna draft that kid. I know it’s hard right now, but once he starts playing? It’ll be the best thing you ever did.”

“Not even that goal against Philly?”

Jonny pretends to think about it, see-sawing his hand like it’s a toss up.

“Eh, we’d still have three cups without that.”

“What would Jonny tell me?” Patrick asks quietly. He’s not sure if he wants to know the answer.

“Jonny would tell you that if you need him, he’ll be on the next flight. Just send your Hawksignal and he’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says softly. He hopes Jonny knows he really means _I love you_.

“I haven’t said anything that you don’t already know,” Jonny replies. “But you need to stop doubting yourself. This is your team. Who gives a fuck what anyone else thinks?”

Patrick does. But it’s not something he wants to talk about with Jonny. He’s not up for a rehash of _you’re in your forties, who gives a fuck what your parents think?_ because it’s a conversation that’s inevitably going to end up there.

“Whatcha been up to this summer?” Patrick asks, hoping that Jonny’s going to take that bait. “Other than working on your tan.”

“Nice try, Peeks,” Jonny says. “But yeah, I’ve been working with this charity here that helps people build greenhouses.”

“Sounds interesting,” Patrick says, even if it doesn’t. Jonny raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t call him on the lie. Sometimes it’s nice to talk to someone who just knows you need an escape from the thing you love the most.

Well, second most.

It’s easy to listen as Jonny talks about building projects and growing seasons and finally managing to grow a watermelon; it’s not something Patrick ever been particularly interested in but Jonny’s monotone is calming, even if he only takes in about 50% of what Jonny’s saying. It’s just really nice to hear him talk.

Patrick falls asleep as Jonny’s telling him about a seventeen year old trying to grow a zucchini to use as a dildo—he’s not 100% sure it’s a true story, but it’s not like he hears the ending to ask questions. 

It’s evening when he wakes, groggy and disoriented, and a glance at his phone tells him that it’s gone eight. Jonny’s face is long gone from his phone, but there’s an unread message from him. Patrick doesn’t hesitate before he opens it.

_Hope u had sweet dreams :)))) remember to take care of YOU tho otherwise i’ll be there to kick ur ass_

Patrick doesn’t doubt it for a second.

*****

Training camp starts the day after they get back to Florida, and this time there’s fifty five players getting Spencer’s _no -ic words_ speech. Patrick knows it’s going to be easier to instill it in the impressionable rookies than some of the guys in here. There’s still a handful of guys that Patrick played against, and he hasn’t skated in the NHL for seven years.

Patrick’s not stupid enough to think that all of the rookies are going to accept Owen Cooper the way that Eric Johansson has, but at least they might keep their mouth shut for fear of getting sent to the AHL. The older guys—he can sit them, sure. But he doesn’t think sitting a guy worth six million a year is going to be a popular opinion with Viola.

The first two days pass by without any major surprises; Owen Cooper still plays amazing hockey, and he looks even better with Murray and Carpenter on his wings during scrimmages. Spencer’s stopped playing line roulette with them and just lets them play, and:

“That’s hockey, baby,” Patrick murmurs when Cooper sends a no look backhand pass to Murray, and he shoots gloveside for a sweet, _sweet_ goal.

McAdams is gelling well with one of their young d-men, and last year’s first line looks solid if not spectacular. There are some guys who don’t look like they belong here, but overall Patrick’s pretty pleased with what he sees on the ice. 

Day three brings the problems that Patrick had been waiting for; he’s heading back to his office when he two people talking in the corridors. It normally wouldn’t concern him except as they get closer, he can make out the words. And they’re exactly what Patrick feared.

“—can’t believe we’re expected to share locker room with him, probably waiting for us to bend over in the shower.”

The person with him laughs, his reply almost unintelligible due to his thick accent, but Patrick figures out he’s asking whose cock Cooper had to suck to get on the team right out of the draft.

He almost has a ‘kids these days’ moment, except it was kids in his day too. In thirty years, it seems like nothing’s changed.

“You considering it?” the first person asks, rounding the corner and coming into Patrick’s eyeline. It doesn’t take long for them to spot him, identical deer in headlights expressions on their faces. And jesus, they’re fucking _kids_. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so worried about the vets.

“Miller, LeBlanc,” Patrick starts. “Can I see you in my office?”

It’s not a request and they both know it, following him inside until the door is closed behind them. Patrick leans against his desk, his legs crossed. He’d learned that move from Jonny.

“I’m sure you remember what Spencer talked to you about on day one,” Patrick says, not letting them interrupt him. “Care to explain what I just heard? Because that’s exactly the kind of shit I don’t need on my team.”

LeBlanc goes to speak first, but Miller interrupts him.

“We didn’t think anyone was around.”

“This isn’t a tree falling in the woods situation,” Patrick says. Both of them stare blankly at him. “Jesus, do they not teach you anything in school these days? Just because you thought no one was going to hear doesn’t make it right. Consider this your first warning. Anything else gets back to me—there’ll be further consequences.”

“Mr Kane—”

“Unless you’re going to tell me that your body was taken over by aliens, I don’t want to hear it.”

Miller opens his mouth to speak _again_ but something on Patrick’s face must make him stop and they shuffle out of Patrick’s office. He realises he’s shaking once they leave, the anger still bubbling inside of him, and when his breathing exercises don’t work he stabs at his phone with his fingers until he manages a coherent sentence.

_just heard the first two dickbags talking about how owen sucked dick to get on this team. Surely they can’t all be this dumb???_

_they’re not all gonna be like that_ Jonny texts back. _have some faith and trust and pixie dust_

_???_

_been spending too much time watching Disney movies with david’s kids_ is Jonny’s explanation. Patrick has enough nieces and nephews to understand. _U need these guys on ur team?_

Patrick thinks about it. Miller’s a third line d-pairing at best, and LeBlanc spent most of his time in Springfield last year. He’s got more potential, but—

 _nope_ he replies, because he doesn’t need them. Now he’s got McAdams, he’s not sure Miller needs to be on his team. And LeBlanc has potential, but he’s sure he can find another guy for his fourth line. They’re both guys he can bury in the minors if need be.

Patrick hates how he feels so much calmer after a few short texts with Jonny, but it’s not unsurprising. It’s why he’d picked Jonny to talk to. Someone who know how to untangle him from any mood imaginable.

He just wishes there wasn’t a reason to be in a bad mood to _start_ with.

*****

The pool of guys gets smaller one they finish camp, and Patrick barely manages to contain a smile when the rest of his team agrees with him that Miller needs some more time in Springfield. Patrick wants to keep him there indefinitely, but he knows at some point the injuries will mount up again. At least McAdams is giving the left side a little more depth this year.

Patrick can’t make the same case for LeBlanc, and Patrick reluctantly agrees to let him travel with the team for the first preseason game. It’s a game full of prospects, and other than Owen’s line it’s LeBlanc who shines, scoring a power play goal and grabbing an assist in the last minute. They might only be playing other prospects but even Patrick can see he’s worked on his game in the off season.

They grab a win, and then another, but it’s followed by two ugly losses where Spencer tries every combination of d-men together before he gets line blender happy. Patrick had always hated that with Q—sometimes guys need time to adjust to playing with someone new—and they argue about it after the game, both too stubborn to admit either of them have a point.

Patrick falls asleep angry and it’s only when he wakes that he thinks _maybe_ he was out of line. It’s not his job. It’s not even a job he’d want. But unlike Spencer he’s been there, and he knows about chemistry. He played on too many different lines _not_ to know it.

As an apology, he leaves a bottle of wine in Spencer’s office. It’s one Jonny picked out for Patrick’s ‘personal collection’, whatever the fuck that means, and since Jonny’s become a wine snob in his old age Patrick figures it’s a solid choice.

It turns out that’s not the case since Spencer’s at his door twenty five minutes later, cradling the bottle in his arms like it’s a child.

“I can’t accept this,” Spencer says. “I’ll accept that you’ve figured out you’re wrong, and take the apology, but—do you even know how much this costs?”

Patrick doesn’t, and it’s probably obvious from his expression since Spencer rolls his eyes. 

“It’s like, three hundred bucks. I don’t think you’re _that_ wrong.”

“Jonny bought it for me,” Patrick says. It doesn’t surprise him that Jonny bought stupidly expensive wine in the slightest.

“Yeah, well, Jonny has great taste,” Spencer says, holding the wine out to Patrick. He doesn’t take it. “Seriously, I can’t take this.”

“Keep it,” Patrick says. “You’ll enjoy it more than I will.”

There’s a second of guilt which flickers over Spencer’s face before he smiles.

“You want to talk about it?” Spencer says, and Patrick nods. Spencer takes the seat he always does on the other side of Patrick’s desk, and places the bottle gently on the table. Patrick totally gets why he was carrying it like a baby now.

“I know you hate the line blending, but—”

“I don’t hate it,” Patrick interrupts. “But you need to give them time to build chemistry. One shift, sometimes that’s not enough. I’ve played with enough guys to know that sometimes it takes a while to click. And I _know_ it’s preseason, but—”

“We don’t have time, Pat,” Spencer says. “You’re thinking like a player still. And you can’t, because if we’re losing—we might not have a job in a month.”

Patrick’s never thought of it that way, never thought about Q just trying to win the best he can on any given night. Never thought he might just be trying to create one spark that can make a change.

“We’ve got two more games,” Patrick says. “Can we at least _try_ and have less of the line blending by the last?”

“I’ll try,” Spencer says, and at least that’s something. “But the third line is giving me a headache.”

“I like LeBlanc,” Patrick says honestly, even though it hurts to be saying the words. “I don’t have any input above that.”

“I wanted to try him with Coops, but—” Spencer says, cutting off before he says the words _probably not a good idea_

“He’ll have to figure it out,” Patrick says. “If he can’t—he doesn’t belong here.”

“Okay,” Spencer says. “You ready for today?”

Patrick’s not; there’s a team practice this morning and then another meeting about the next round of cuts that’s going to drag out too long and probably give him another headache. But at least he gets to be the one who calls coffee breaks, and sometimes that ten minutes of downtime help him through the next hour of disagreements.

“As I’ll ever be,” Patrick replies.

******

The last round of cuts are made two days before opening night, and Patrick’s mostly happy with the team. They could use a better third line—the same line that Spencer’s been concerned about—but other than their massively overpaid 3C, they’ve got plenty of wingers that Patrick can try out. And if Cooper’s producing anywhere close to his points in preseason—he might not need to worry about the third line.

What is is worried about is where all the young guys are going to live; he’s got four guys this year who’ve never played in the NHL before. He doesn’t want them to live in hotels until they find their own place. He’d hated that when he first got to Chicago.

Eks has already told Patrick that he’s going to take the young d-man from Finland, which is one less person for Patrick to worry about. He’d asked McAdams if he would look after Owen, but Mac hadn’t even found a place for himself yet. Let alone a rookie.

And sure, Patrick hasn’t heard anyone except Miller and LeBlanc say anything homophobic. But that doesn’t mean he wants to put Owen in a situation where even if the _player_ is accepting, his wife or girlfriend or _friends_ might not be.

Which is why Patrick’s here, and Owen’s looking at him like—like he doesn’t really get what Patrick’s asking.

“You can say no, but—it’s a space above my garage. It was meant to be for my parents, but my dad can’t travel anymore. So it’s just sitting there and I guess—I thought maybe it’d be a good space for you.”

“Sure,” Owen says hesitantly. “But—my boyfriend—he was planning to come and see me this weekend. I that—will that be okay?”

Patrick’s heart breaks a little as he realises Owen still doesn’t fully trust him. Like everything he’s doing for Owen is just for show because he wants Owen to playing fucking awesome hockey, and not because Patrick accepts Owen for exactly who he is and wants the world to know it.

“As long as you’re not having sex in the kitchen, I think we’ll be fine,” he tries to joke, but it falls a little flat.

“Thanks,” Owen says, visibly relieved. “I—I guess we could get a hotel if it’s weird, but—”

“Owen,” Patrick says. “I don’t care who you bring back to the house as long as you’re safe, I don’t have to see it, and they don’t steal any of my shit. That’d be the same if you were bringing a girl home. It’s like—” and Patrick stops, remembering the time he tried to sneak a girl out of Stan’s place and got a dressing down. “I guess it’s kind of like living with your parents, but not. I know the kind of shit rookie players get up to. As long as I’m not _seeing_ it in my house—”

“Got it,” Owen says, smiling. “So if it’s like living with my parents, you’re gonna help me move, right?”

Patrick shakes his head and smiles. He’s got a soft spot the size of Florida for this kid.

*****

Patrick helps Owen move his two suitcases into the space above the garage; it’s got everything Owen could ever need except a kitchen and on the morning of the home opener, Patrick finds that Owen’s steady chatter as over the breakfast counter helps him calm his nerves.

Owen wins the game for them in overtime with a gorgeous off the boards pass to Murray and even _Patrick_ can’t stop himself from cheering along with the crowd. Sometimes he needs to remind himself that he doesn’t bleed Hawks red anymore. It’s much easier to do when they’re winning.

Patrick fulfils his media obligations with a smile, talking about how pleased he was with the preseason and how he hopes the young guys can make all of the difference, and he’s heading back to his office when he spots Owen in the corridor with his parents.

He’d known they were flying in today but the timing had been tight, and Patrick’s glad they could be here for him. He knows that his parents wouldn’t have missed his first game for _anything_. But the Coopers both have normal, boring jobs, and this morning Owen told him how it was only when he got named to the roster that his mom was able to get the time off she needed.

Patrick thinks about his own parents and his dad driving to Chicago for all of his games, and—

It’s probably best not to go down that road.

He’s spent so long wrapped up in his thoughts that he hasn’t realised he’s been spotted until Owen introduces his parents to him.

“Call me Monica, please,” Monica Cooper says. “Now you’re looking after my son, I think we can be a little less formal.”

“Kaner’s not _looking after me_ ,” Owen protests, and Patrick has to agree with him. Owen knows how to make breakfast and clean up after himself and actually makes Patrick’s house feel a little more like home. Even though it’s only been two days, it’s been nice to have another person around.

It turns out the Coopers are going to be in town through the weekend, flying home on Sunday night and back to their normal jobs. But Patrick can tell even though Owen’s been living with billet families for two years, they aren’t entirely comfortable with him being so far away. Barrie was only a three hour drive from Sarnia. Now Owen’s a three hour flight away.

“Meet me here at nine tomorrow,” he says, scrawling the name of his favorite breakfast place in Sunrise on the back of his business card. “It’s—my treat.”

“We couldn’t—” Monica starts to protest, but it’s Sam Cooper who interrupts her.

“We’d love to,” he says, shaking Patrick’s hand. “I’m glad Owen has someone looking out for him.”

Owen rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest this time, and when Patrick looks at him, he sees a tiny, pleased smile curling at the corner of Owen’s mouth.

*****

Patrick’s too wired to sleep after the game, and he barely gets six hours of sleep before his alarm’s blaring at him to get up. He’s groggy until he showers, the water cooler than he’d normally like to try and shock him awake, and it almost works. He downs his routine coffee before he leaves the house, and when he steps into his car he can feel his brain start to come back online.

Owen and his parents are already waiting for him when he pulls up to 7 O’Clock Cafe, and he lets them do most of the talking once they’re settled in their seats. 7 O’Clock Cafe isn’t quite what Palace Grill was to him in Chicago, but it’s close, and while the Coopers try and figure out what they’re going to have, Patrick doesn’t bother looking at a menu.

The Jonny-voice in his head yells at him when he orders the blueberry lemon ricotta pancakes, but Patrick ignores it. Jonny’s not here, so he can suck it. Patrick wants pancakes.

While they’re waiting for their food, Owen gets more and more embarrassed as his parents take turn telling stories of his childhood. Some are familiar, like breaking family heirlooms with wayward pucks, but some—

“He cried all the way to Hamilton,” Sam tells Patrick. Owen has his face his his hands. “He kept telling me he didn’t want to play hockey anymore, he just wanted to come home. So we pulled over at a gas station. And I told him that if he really didn’t want to go, we can turn around and go home, and we’ll never talk about it again. And if he wants to go now and then hates it, I’ll be on the road to pick him up in a second.”

“I hate this story,” Owen mumbles into his hands. Patrick doesn’t hate it at all. He’s been there. Except when he wanted to come home from Detroit, his mom said that that wasn’t an option. _Kanes don’t quit_ , she told him, and Patrick had spent a week crying every night before he’d realised that hockey needed all of his energy.

“It wasn’t easy being apart from him,” Sam says. “But I think he did okay.”

“You missed the part where I cried for like, two hours on the phone to you after my first practice and wouldn’t let you hang up,” Owen interrupts. “And by the time you got to Hamilton I’d stopped crying and didn’t want to go home anymore. Are we done with the Owen Cooper history hour, or—”

Owen’s interrupted by the arrival of their breakfasts, and Sam shoots Patrick what’s meant to be a long suffering glance when Owen’s not looking. It’s entirely too fond to be long suffering, and Patrick smiles into his pancakes.

“I’m glad he’s here,” Monica tells Patrick when Owen’s disappeared to the bathroom. “And despite his protests, that he has someone to look after him.”

“I’m on his side,” Patrick tells them honestly. “He’s a great player. The things he can do with the puck—”

“We know,” Sam interrupts. “But no matter what he does on the ice, we’re always gonna be proud of him. Owen wanted his life to be this way, and maybe it would be easier if he hadn’t but it was _his_ choice. We’re glad he’s somewhere he ended up somewhere he can live the way he wants and—as long as he’s happy, it doesn’t matter if he scores another point.”

And it hits Patrick then, that maybe _this_ should be normal. Hockey parents just wanting their kids to be happy. Not forcing them to stay somewhere they were lonely or making them play on so many teams they didn’t know the other kids’ names.

Not wanting their kid to be their legacy.

*****

After ten games the Panthers find themselves firmly perched on top of the division with an 8-1-1 record, Owen’s twelve points the most out of all rookies. The third line isn’t looking as much of a disaster as Patrick had thought, and Mac has made a significant different to their defence and—it’s kind of _amazing_ to feel the adrenaline rush again after so many stutters and failures last year.

It all changes one night in Carolina. It’s the last game in a week long road trip along the east coast, and Patrick had elected not to make the trip with the team. He doesn’t mind the shorter, overnight trips, but a week away from his desk hadn’t been what Patrick needed this early in the season.

It’s been a quiet second period; with five minutes remaining the shots are only 6-4 in favor of Carolina, but Owen’s lined up to take a faceoff in Carolina’s end. The announcers are talking about Owen’s season so far, and Patrick tunes the out while he watches Owen get thrown out of the faceoff circle.

There’s a moment where it looks like Murray’s going to go instead, but Mac pulls them both to one side and after a minute of talking, lines up on the dot.

 _wtf is Mac doing????_ Patrick texts Spencer, even though he’s not going to get an reply for at least another five minutes.

Patrick watches Mac win what might be the worst faceoff he’s ever _seen_ , flicking the puck back to Murray, and then Mac is punching Wilson and—

Mac’s gloves are off, his fist meeting Wilson’s face over and over until they tumble to the ground, blood spattering the ice. It takes two referees to separate them and even then it looks like Mac wants to try again, at least until Owen pulls him to one side, his shoulders tense as he talks to him before skating away.

It doesn’t surprise Patrick when Mac is called for game misconduct and ejected from the game. Patrick hasn’t seen a fight like that in hockey in a long time.

It’s Spencer who gets asked about it after the game, but he’s tight lipped when he tells the reporters that he can’t comment any further until he speaks to Mac, and minutes later, Eks and Karly say the same thing.

Patrick’s phone won’t stop vibrating on the couch next to him but he doesn’t answer it. Right now, he doesn’t have answers to give.

*****

The team stay in Raleigh overnight and Patrick fills his morning with a call from the Department of Player Safety. They’re already talking about a suspension, even though Mac has no prior history of anything in the league, but Patrick doesn’t disagree with them. What Mac did would probably have got a suspension when Patrick was a rookie. Now he’s probably looking at a few games, minimum.

Spencer looks about as tired as Patrick feels when he all but collapses in Patrick’s office. All he’d told Patrick this morning is that Mac wanted to talk to Patrick himself without the middle man. 

“Mac’s outside,” Spencer tells him. “He’s—it’s really fucking shitty, Pat.”

Patrick’s mind runs through about a thousand different _whats_ before it clicks. Owen getting ejected from the faceoff; Mac insisting on taking it; Owen pulling him to one side afterwards. Patrick’s under no illusions that every NHL player has stopped the homophobic slurs on the ice since Owen started playing but to get that kind of reaction? Patrick’s not sure he wants to know what was said.

“Fuck,” he says quietly. “You’d think—the ref should have heard something, right? If Mac could hear—”

“Turning a blind eye,” Spencer says. “They won’t admit to hearing a word. So it’d be up to Mac and Coops, and—”

Patrick knows that Owen’s not going to want to do anything that makes him more of a target than he already is. But Mac—the whole reason he wanted to sign here was to make a change. And if no one knows why he’s getting suspended, Patrick’s not sure he sees the impact.

“I’ll talk to Mac,” Patrick says after a minute. “Maybe he’ll come around.”

“Good luck,” Spencer says. “I’ll let him know you’re ready.”

There’s barely a minute between Spencer leaving and Mac entering Patrick’s office. He’s much less at home then Spencer was, hovering by the door and looking nervous until Patrick offers him a seat.

“Jack,” Patrick starts, and then shakes his head. He has no fucking idea what he’s going to say. “I guess you know why you’re here.”

Mac nods tersely and then there’s silence. Patrick’s not sure he’s cut out for this part of the job. Especially when he’s not sure that Mac is in the wrong.

“How many games?” Mac asks.

“They want you to have a hearing,” Patrick says. “So maybe five. I hope it’d be less though, once you explained.”

“Spencer told you,” Mac says. It’s not a question.

“He didn’t need to,” Patrick says. “I know Wilson was a fucking shitheel that doesn’t deserve to be on the ice. You gonna tell me what he said?”

There’s another silence for a minute, it’s awkward, stretching out between the two of them, but eventually Mac relents.

“He told Coops that he shouldn’t be on the ice and that people like him didn’t deserve the chance to play. That they’re just waiting for Owen to get open and they’re going to flatten him. ‘You’re a fucking _f_ , not a fucking untouchable princess’,” and Mac makes quote marks around the words as he says them. “That’s when Coops got kicked out of the faceoff. And then, then Wilson told me that I shouldn’t get comfortable with a fucking _f_ on my team unless he’s living in the locker room on his knees.”

Patrick doesn’t know what to say. The idea there are still people out there who believe shit like this—it makes his skin crawl.

“I should be telling you that what you did was unacceptable,” Patrick starts. “But—jesus, I can’t tell you that. But I think you should tell Player Safety what you just told me.”

“Coops doesn’t want that,” Mac says. He’s quiet as he says it, not meeting Patrick’s eyes. Patrick’s not sure that Mac agrees with Owen’s decision to stay quiet about this.

“You came here to make a difference, right?” Patrick asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “This going viral? Will make a difference. Or at least an impact. But keeping quiet doesn’t do a fucking thing.”

It doesn’t take long to get Mac in front of a camera once they’ve figured out what to say. Mac’s black eye is darker on camera than it is in person, the bruise on his jaw beginning to bloom, but he’d declined the makeup they’d offered him.

“Battle scars,” Mac had told the makeup girls, and Patrick had silently agreed with him.

Patrick watches Mac talk about what Wilson said on the ice, and why maybe violence wasn’t the answer. Why he’s sorry for what he did, but not the message it sends. Why the world needs more role models like Owen Cooper to prevent people like his cousin from ending their own life.

It doesn’t surprise Patrick when it the video goes viral. It surprises Patrick less when the NHL state that they will be suspending Wilson pending an investigation.

Patrick has to conduct his own press conference that afternoon. He doesn’t decline the makeup. He’s got enough battle scars without the bags under his eyes.

It doesn’t take long for Patrick to fall into the familiar pattern of giving nondescript answers that everyone expects from a GM. At least until one of the reporters asks if he thinks the NHL is right to suspend Wilson.

He pauses, trying to form some kind of words that aren’t _he’s a homophobic asshole who deserved everything he’s going to get_. He doesn’t need to add more fuel to the fire.

“I think maybe the NHL should look at why the referees didn’t report this incident,” Patrick says eventually. “The fact that they didn’t—it’s clear that the NHL hasn’t moved forward as much as it thinks it has. It relied on a player coming forward. How many guys out there hear shit like this and it never gets reported?”

There’s another barrage of questions before Patrick can safely lock himself in his office. He pulls up the NHL website and it doesn’t surprise him when one of the photos from the press conference is splashed over the front page.

**Patrick Kane: NHL needs to move out of the dark ages**

It’s not exactly what he said but he’s too busy staring at the dark circles under his eyes to care. Apparently there are some things that even makeup can’t fix.

As if on cue, a message saying _get some sleep_ pings on his phone.

 _i would if i wasn’t in a shitstorm_ Patrick replies. He’s not up for playing the chirping game with Jonny. _u watched?_

It’s a stupid question since Jonny’s chirping his appearance, and it doesn’t take long for the _yeah_ to appear under Jonny’s name. The three little dots keep appearing and disappearing until Patrick can’t take the anticipation.

 _u think itd be different if we’d come out_ Patrick asks. It’s something that’s been playing on his mind ever since Mac has said that hockey needs more role models like Owen. Maybe if Patrick had been braver—maybe hockey might have found its way into at least this century. Maybe—

 _thinking about it isn’t a good idea pat. U cant come out for someone else_ cuts into his thoughts. Because Jonny, as always, is right. Patrick couldn’t even come out for Jonny.

He’s suddenly overwhelmed by the day, overtired and overemotional, and he feels the tears on his cheeks before he realises he’s crying.

For what, Patrick doesn’t know.

*****

Patrick doesn’t see Owen until breakfast the next morning. He’s attempting to make an omelette when he hears Owen’s footsteps on the stairs, and when they suddenly stop he looks up. Owen’s frozen in place, glaring daggers at him, and Patrick feels about five inches tall. If Owen hasn’t learned those laser eyes from watching old videos of Jonny—Patrick scratches the thought from the record. He _definitely_ learned them from Jonny.

And they’re just as black-hole-boring as they were when Patrick was a rookie.

“Hey,” Patrick offers, but Owen doesn’t reply, just brushes past Patrick on the way to the refrigerator. “Are you—okay?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Owen replies angrily. “It’s none of your fucking business.”

“You should have told me you were getting shit on the ice,” Patrick starts, but Owen cuts him off.

“And you were doing to what, go out there and fight him yourself? Make a speech about how everyone should get along?” The venom in his tone makes Patrick bristle. “I don’t need someone looking after me. I can fight my own battles.”

“Maybe,” Patrick says. “But you don’t need to.”

“Yes. I. Do,” Owen states with gritted teeth. “Since I came out—there’s always been guys out there who tell me I’m too pussy to fight. That I don’t want to ruin my manicured nails. That just because I’m gay I’m not willing to get bruises. Having someone else fighting _for_ me just reinforces the idea that gay players can’t cut it in the NHL. And I told Mac the same thing.”

Patrick swallows. He’s not sure Owen’s right—there’s a team behind him for a reason—but if he wants to fight his own battles, Patrick’s not going to stop him.

“I’ll step out of it,” Patrick promises. “I don’t think I agree, but—”

“This isn’t your fight,” Owen says sadly. Patrick catches the _yes it is_ before it falls out of his mouth. It’s the closest he’s ever come to admitting it to someone else without them finding out first.

“But you gotta promise, if guys start shit on the ice—”

“I’ll be sure to tell you, _dad_ ,” Owen says, the now familiar smirk curling at his lips. “And thanks for breakfast.”

He takes the pan out of Patrick’s hand and slides the omelette onto a plate before Patrick realises what’s happening. Patrick feels like he has whiplash at how fast the conversation’s changed tone, and once he’s recovered Owen’s already sitting at the counter, loudly chewing what is mostly scrambled eggs.

“ _Kids_ ,” Patrick mutters under his breath, shaking his head. Owen’s smile just gets wider.

It’s not like he has time to make another omelette—he has a meeting with the leadership team and the coaches in an hour—and in retaliation he swipes Owen’s wallet.

“This is for that dinner you owe me,” he says as he lifts a fifty out of it. “I’m keeping the change as interest.”

Owen squawks a protest around a mouthful of food but it’s all for show, and Patrick slips out of his front door still laughing.

*****

Mac gets a four game suspension from the Department of Player Safety, and Patrick’s almost pleased when Wilson gets a matching one from the NHL. He’s fairly sure Mac’s perfect history with DoPS is what helped his case, but he hopes that the reason for the fight influenced the department’s decision. At least, as long as they aren’t homophobic assholes like some of the players out there still seem to be.

The team Halloween party is a much needed break after an ugly 6-1 loss, and Patrick can’t help by be impressed when Owen and his boyfriend come down the stairs as Kirk and Spock.

They’ve gone all out—Owen’s even wearing prosthetic ears—and Patrick dutifully snaps photos of them before they disappear into the night. If he forwards a couple of the best ones to Natalie, no one ever has to know. At least, until they end up on the Panthers instagram.

Patrick debates sending one to Jonny, and he types and retypes a variation of _wish we’d done this_ before he sends Jonny the photo without any caption at all. Jonny sends one back; it’s a stupid selfie of him and David’s kids. They’re trick or treating in what is probably Winnipeg. Jonny’s dressed as Snow White and the kids are three of the dwarves.

 _lost a bet_ is the caption, and Patrick laughs himself sick. That’s definitely going in the blackmail folder.

 _i wouldn’t fuck you as a girl_ he sends back. Jonny definitely doesn’t make a pretty one.

 _good job im not one then_ is the instant reply. Patrick can’t help but think about the last time he fucked Jonny. How Jonny was so pliant beneath him, how he opened up so perfectly for Patrick, how Jonny’s moans were muffled by the pillows as Patrick pushed inside him. How he was a bossy asshole when Patrick didn’t make him come fast enough, telling Patrick to fuck him harder, _right there Patrick, that’s it, you fucking beauty_.

Patrick closes the messages app. He knows that road only leads to madness.

*****

Three more games lead to three more losses and even though Viola’s not said anything to Patrick, he knows the slump can’t continue. Patrick doesn’t _want_ it to continue. They’re still in the middle of the conference, and it’s not unsalvageable, but it’s not where Patrick wants to be. He’s hard wired to like _winning_ , and even though he can’t be out there on the ice and change anything, he can at least try by figuring out what the missing piece is.

Once the team have been released from a non-optional optional practice, Patrick calls a staff meeting. Spencer looks relieved as he takes his normal seat to Patrick’s right, and there’s three hours of discussions before there’s a decision made on sending one of the third pairing defensemen to Springfield.

It’s then that Tom suggests sending Cooper down with him, and Patrick looks at him like he’s grown another head.

“So you want to send down the guy who’s scored more points than anyone else on the team this year,” Patrick says, the words laced with sarcasm.

“He hasn’t got a point in three out of the last four games. Maybe—”

“Neither have the rest of the team,” Patrick interrupts. “You want to send everyone down with him? I’m sure the rest of the NHL will pick them off waivers before we can say _hockey_.”

“Coops isn’t the issue, Tom,” Spencer says, and Patrick takes a much needed breath. “He’s still creating chances even if nothing’s going in. Springfield isn’t where he needs to be.”

“If Cooper wasn’t here, McAdams wouldn’t have got suspended,” Tom interjects.

“If Coops wasn’t here, we wouldn’t _have_ Mac,” Spencer says. It’s less condescending than Patrick would have been. “And not having him on the ice is part of the reason we’ve struggled, but other than Eks and Kosi, the blue line’s kind of a mess right now.”

Patrick’s relieved when most of the rest of the staff agree with Spencer, and the conversation moves on to their third line center troubles. Tom doesn’t say a word unless he’s asked, just keeps his gaze firmly on Patrick until the meeting is done.

He doesn’t stand to leave until it’s just him and Patrick left alone in the room. Tom’s steps are measured as he walks towards Patrick, purposefully slower than usual, and Patrick swallows.

“Just because you played once doesn’t mean you know anything about being a GM,” Tom says. The ice in his voice sends chills down Patrick’s spine. “Maybe I’m the only one who sees through this act, but they’ll soon realise you don’t have a fucking clue. And then they’ll all realise that I’ve been right all along. Cooper doesn’t belong in the NHL.”

Patrick’s lost for words as Tom slips by him, and it’s only once he’s alone that the words sink in.

“Fucking homophobic piece of shit,” Patrick says. The words don’t echo—there’s too much carpet in the room for that—but they swim around in Patrick’s head anyway.

Because he’d made the resolution that homophobic assholes don’t play on his team.

Maybe Tom shouldn’t be on it either.

*****

Patrick can smell garlic when he steps out of his car, which is weird. As far as he can tell, Owen’s about as proficient in the kitchen as he was when he was eighteen, which is to say that he can make toast. And on a good day, eggs. Patrick doesn’t think either of those things are going to contain enough garlic to make his porch smell like an Italian restaurant.

The reason for the garlic smell becomes apparent once Patrick opens the door; Jonny’s leaning against the kitchen counter and talking to Owen, and the pile of pots and pans is one that only Jonathan Toews could be responsible for. He can see the light in the oven is on, and Patrick guesses the smell is coming from whatever Jonny’s cooking in there.

“Didn’t expect to come home to this disaster,” Patrick chirps. Jonny smiles at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Wasn’t sure if your body could survive on take out any longer,” Jonny chirps back, but Patrick hears the fondness in Jonny’s voice. “And I’m sure the kid’s emptied your freezer by now.”

“Hey!” Owen protests, grumbling about how he’s _not a fucking child_ , but the words drown into background noise as Patrick’s focus narrows to _Jonny_.

He looks good—unfairly tan for November, but what else is new—and Patrick closes the distance between them and wraps himself in Jonny, pressing his face into Jonny’s neck. It doesn’t take long for Jonny to reciprocate, pulling Patrick closer, his fingers curled around Patrick’s wrist.

“‘s good to see you,” Patrick mumbles, his lips catching on the soft skin of Jonny’s throat. He feels Jonny shiver against him before Jonny takes a step back.

“You too, Pat,” Jonny replies softly. His fingers are still pressed into Patrick’s wrist, his thumb rubbing along the tiny scar there, like he knows it’s been bothering Patrick recently. Like he wants to make everything better.

Patrick’s not gonna stop him.

The moment’s broken by the sound of the refrigerator opening, and Patrick remembers that Owen’s here. _Shit_. 

There’s a jumble of thoughts in his head when a bottle’s pressed into his hand, and Owen smiles at him.

“You look like you need it,” he states. Patrick wonders exactly how shit he looks for his rookie to be bringing him alcohol. And for Jonny to be in his house. Probably pretty fucking bad.

“Thanks, _kid_ ,” Patrick says, grinning. Owen just sarcastically salutes him with a beer of his own; Patrick looks at it for a second before deciding it’s not worth saying anything about. Owen’s a pretty good kid. Way better than Patrick was at eighteen. And Jonny’s not gonna tell any he’s letting a rookie drink alcohol. “I’d say next time you buy, but—” 

“I mean, I’ve got a fake—” Owen starts, but Patrick puts his hands over his own ears.

“Not hearing it,” he says. Because he’s sure that half of the team have fakes, but he doesn’t need to _actually_ know it. Then he’d have to do something about it.

Jonny starts laughing behind him, and Patrick turns towards him, because _what_. Maybe Jonny’s finally gone crazy. Crazier.

“Remember that fake Sharpy got you?” he says as an explanation, and then it all makes sense. That thing was fucking _awful_. “And how you had to bribe the guy at the store not to call the cops?”

Patrick’s still not entirely sure _how_ that story never found its way online. But it’s something he’s eternally thankful for. 

“This I need to hear,” Owen says, and as Jonny launches into one of the top five most embarrassing moments of Patrick Kane’s life, it hits him that this is what could have been if Patrick had been just that little bit braver. A little bit more like a rookie that’s starting to feel like family more than he does a lodger. 

That him and Jonny could have had the perfect, domestic life that Patrick never knew he wanted in anything other than a theoretical way. That they could have had brilliant, stubborn, _talented_ kids who Jonny gives advice to over breakfast.

He has to close his eyes and take a second to _breathe_ , and when he opens them again he’s got two concerned faces looking at him.

“Headache,” he says. It’s not even a lie; there’s a dull throb at his temple that’s getting worse with every second. Jonny’s eyes immediately flick to the bottle in his hand and then back to Patrick, like he _wants_ to say it’s not a good idea. “I’ll be fine.”

Jonny gives him a strained smile and tells him to sit down. Patrick doesn’t be have to told twice.

*****

Patrick doesn’t even protest when Jonny sets the channel to a fishing show after dinner; it’s easy to fall asleep to, and he’s not surprised when he wakes to Jonny gently shaking his shoulder.

“Hey,” Jonny says softly. Patrick blinks at him sleepily. “When I said you needed sleep, I meant in a real bed.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and hopes Jonny understands that his sleep brain won’t allow him to form any more words.

It doesn’t take long for Jonny to drag Patrick off the couch, and he wraps an arm around Patrick’s waist as they make their way upstairs. Patrick maybe leans into Jonny more than he needs to, but Jonny’s warm, and _here_ and at least for a while, _his_. He’s going to enjoy it while it lasts. 

Jonny’s still pressed close against him when they reach Patrick’s door, a hand still curled into Patrick’s shirt like he doesn’t want to let go. Patrick doesn’t want him to.

“You got any meetings tomorrow?” Jonny asks quietly.

“There’s skate at ten,” Patrick says. “And then there’s a leadership meeting right before lunch.”

“Then I’ll see you for breakfast at eight thirty.” Patrick’s about to protest because he needs to do shit before skate. “There’s not going to be an argument, Pat. You look—”

“Like shit?” Patrick fills in. Jonny smiles at him softly.

“I was going to go with like you need to sleep for a week, but that works too. Let me—I want to _help_.”

Normally Patrick would protest that he’s survived fine all of these years without Jonny’s help, but he’s exhausted, and honestly, he’s not sure he’d be here without Jonny. So he nods, watches the smile flit across Jonny’s face, and leans up to kiss him.

Jonny doesn’t protest, just sweetly opens his mouth for Patrick like Patrick hoped he would. It’s soft and sleepy and not heading anywhere, but it’s exactly what Patrick needs right now. Jonny kisses him like he’s going to break, the same way he used to kiss Patrick in the connecting doorway of their hotel rooms when this was still new and fragile and they were terrified of destroying the balance between them.

“Goodnight, Kaner,” Jonny says against his mouth. Patrick smiles at the familiarity.

“Night, Tazer,” he replies, the same as he always did back then.

Patrick reaches for the door handle once Jonny slips out of his grasp but doesn’t open it until Jonny’s reached his own bedroom. The one that has more of Jonny’s shit in it than Patrick’s own. The one that no one else uses.

“If you need anything—” Jonny says.

Patrick wants to ask him to stay. To crawl into bed with him and hold him tight. To tell Patrick he loves him when he thinks Patrick’s asleep. But he waits a second too long and by the time the words are on the tip of his tongue, Jonny’s slipped into his room, the door clicking shut behind him.

It doesn’t take long before Patrick’s collapsing on his own bed, and he’s asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

*****

Jonny’s got breakfast waiting for him the following morning—he’s apparently already cooked for Owen, which Patrick boggles at, because Jonny has never been a good morning person—but they’re both quiet over breakfast. Patrick’s still struggling to wake up; he slept like the dead, but apparently it hasn’t made up for the lack of sleep that’s been plaguing him for the last couple of weeks. And Jonny’s just staring at him like a fucking creeper.

“Stop it,” he mumbles around a mouthful of food.

Jonny just shakes his head but he turns his attention to his breakfast, and he doesn’t stare at Patrick again while they finish up their food.

Jonny’s already got the keys to Patrick’s car in his hand by the time he’s finished his coffee, and Patrick doesn’t protest. Jonny’s driving sucks, but it’s probably better than him getting into a car right now. He feels worn through, exhausted in the worst way, the dull headache still there, and his throat’s a little dry, and—

Fuck. Patrick doesn’t have time to get sick.

“Can we stop at Walgreens?” Patrick asks Jonny. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

“We don’t have time,” Jonny says. He’s probably right. Traffic’s a bitch this morning. “But I’ll pick you up something and drop it to you later.”

Patrick doesn’t even have the energy to protest whatever weird and wonderful remedy Jonny’s going to try and tell him is _just as good as NyQuil Pat, I promise_. He can probably send Melanie to get some later if Jonny tries to bring him some ecowarrior shit that’s going to make him want to die.

He snags a Gatorade once he reaches the rink; it helps with the headache but not the scratch at the back of his throat, and both symptoms only get worse throughout the morning. He’s grateful when he can duck out after skate and head back to his office, hoping that Jonny’s followed through on his promise.

There’s a bag sitting on his desk; Patrick breathes a sigh of relief once he sees that it’s from Walgreens and not the health store that’s in the mall. There’s a plethora of goodies inside but Patrick zeroes in on the DayQuil. That shit cures all.

He takes a swig straight out of the bottle—probably too much, but he can’t bring himself to care. If it even takes the _edge_ off this, he’s fine with overdosing on whatever magic it possesses.

 _thanks_ he texts Jonny. Patrick gets a smiley face in return, along with a question if Patrick’s planning on staying for the game tonight.

 _I need to_ he says. _u wanna come?_

 _sure_ Jonny says mildly. Except nothing about Jonny is mild, and Patrick can’t figure out what it’s meant to mean.

*****

The Panthers eke out a win in OT that night and Patrick can’t keep the smile off his face as he talks to the media. They don’t ask him anything too earth shattering, nothing he can’t answer on autopilot, and once he’s done he goes to find Jonny.

He’d maybe hugged Jonny a little _too_ tightly when they’d won, but there’s never much focus on him during games. He hopes it wasn’t televised but even if it was—Jonny’s cellied much harder with him when they were on the ice. And they’re hockey players. Touch is the language that everyone understands.

Jonny’s sitting in Patrick’s chair when he opens the door, his feet on Patrick’s desk like he owns the place. Patrick’s too happy to care right now, and it doesn’t take long before Jonny’s herding him out of the stadium.

“And into bed,” Jonny says. “No highlights.”

“Yes, Captain Serious,” Patrick chirps. Jonny makes a face. Patrick can’t believe how much he still hates that nickname. Even when he’s shown he’s a huge, dumb, dork most of the time.

Patrick texts with Spencer on the way home, trading ideas about how to tweak their below average PP. Patrick wants to try Kosi on the second unit but Spencer’s reluctant and Patrick doesn’t understand _why_. Especially since Eks is getting old, at least in hockey years, and they need him on the PK more.

Jonny steals his phone from him as they step inside the front door and holds it out of his reach.

“I meant it, Peeks,” Jonny says. “No hockey.”

“You said _highlights_ ,” Patrick points out, but Jonny’s probably right. A good sleep and another couple of doses of NyQuil and he thinks he’ll be okay. He feels a little better than this morning, anyway.

Jonny hands Patrick’s phone back to him once they reach his bedroom; his fingers brush over the back of Patrick’s hand as he pulls away. Patrick wants to curl Jonny’s fingers into his own and tug him closer, but he doesn't. They still haven’t talked about their kiss last night, and Patrick thinks maybe it’s better this way.

Friends is better than nothing. Friends that sometimes kiss might be as good as Patrick's going to get.

He opens his mouth to tell Jonny goodnight, but the words are swallowed when Jonny meets Patrick’s lips with his own. He presses Patrick against the doorframe, one of his hands cupping Patrick’s jaw, the other twisted into his shirt until it’s _not_ and then Patrick’s falling through the open door, and _that’s_ where Jonny’s hand went.

It doesn’t take long for Jonny to start tugging at the buttons on Patrick’s shirt, not managing to undo any of them and then he’s muttering something that sounds like _fucking useless piece of shit_ against Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick can’t stop himself from laughing. It’s perfectly Jonny, wanting everything to bend to his will and getting frustrated when it doesn’t.

He pushes Jonny’s hands away and deftly undoes them himself before he slips the shirt over his shoulders. When he looks back at Jonny, Jonny’s looking at him like—like he’s everything he’s ever wanted. Like he’s been waiting for this _forever_.

Patrick can relate.

“Come on, slowpoke,” he chirps; Jonny’s hasn’t managed to unbutton more than two buttons of his own shirt yet, and it’s Patrick that has to kick him into gear by going for the bottom one himself. His hands get batted away by a much more focussed Jonny, and soon his shirt is lying next to Patrick’s on the floor.

Jonny makes quick work of Patrick’s pants, and he’s still sliding them off when Jonny pushes him onto the bed. It doesn’t take long before Jonny’s hovering over him, knees bracketing Patrick’s hips, and then Jonny’s kissing him, a hand tangled in Patrick’s hair, and Patrick lets himself melt into Jonny’s touch.

Patrick knows he’s going to come too quickly as soon as Jonny gets a hand on his cock; he might be old but his body still thrums with _JonnyJonnyJonny_ , and he hasn’t had sex in _months_ and—

“Stop,” he mumbles against Jonny’s mouth. Jonny does, pulling his hand away from Patrick as though he’s been burned. Patrick just tangles their fingers together in a gesture that he hopes is reassuring, and rolls them until they’re both on their sides.

It doesn’t take long for Jonny to curl his hand around Patrick’s jaw and then they’re kissing again, soft and slow and deep. There’s no urgency now but the world still narrows to Jonny and his mouth and all the places they’re touching, and Patrick wants to live in this moment forever.

They jerk each other off slowly, no rush to get anywhere, their feet tangled together. Jonny’s smile is pressed against his own, and Patrick wonders if this is what married sex is like. No rush, no urgency, just indulging themselves in each other for as long as it takes.

But it’s not something Patrick wants to dwell on, not when it’s ever going to happen for them, and instead he focuses on the twist of Jonny’s hand and the warmth of his mouth, and it doesn’t take long before Patrick’s coming, spilling over his stomach.

It doesn’t take long for Jonny to join him, jerking himself off when Patrick’s coordination goes to shit, and he comes with Patrick’s fingers tracing the cut of his hips.

There’s a moment where they’re doing nothing more than sharing air, mouths barely brushing over each other, before Patrick blindly reaches for the box of tissues on his nightstand. He’s not even close, and he carefully shuffles until he can reach them. Jonny doesn’t move, letting Patrick do a half assed job of cleaning both of them, not even saying a word when Patrick throws the tissue to the floor. Jonny could just be tired, but—

“I should go,” Jonny says. Patrick curls his hand around Jonny’s wrist. He doesn’t want Jonny to go anywhere.

“Can’t—can’t we just pretend?” Patrick asks softly. He hates that he it sounds like he’s pleading with Jonny, which—yeah, maybe he is. “We’re done this so many fucking times Jon. We know how it ends. But—can’t we be happy for a while?”

Patrick can’t breathe while Jonny’s silent. It stretches out until Patrick wishes he hadn’t said it. Until he wishes he’d let Jonny go. He’s about to take it back when Jonny speaks, but it’s so quiet that Patrick almost doesn’t hear him.

“Okay,” Jonny says, and Patrick can’t stop himself from smiling. Jonny tugs him closer, looping an arm around Patrick’s waist until Patrick’s pressed flush against him. He tucks his head into the space between Jonny’s neck and shoulder, the space that belongs to Patrick, his smile pressed against Jonny‘s skin.

It’s easier to sleep with Jonny as his anchor, and when Jonny whispers, “I love you,” into Patrick’s hair, he just curls tighter against Jonny’s chest.

*****

The team fly out for a two game roadtrip with back to back games after skate the following day; it’s one of the roadtrips that Patrick was meant to be going on, but—

“I don’t want to get the rest of the team sick,” he explains to Spencer. It’s not _quite_ a lie. He feels a little better than the day before, but that doesn’t mean he’s out of the woods. “And I’ve been on the wrong end of a team cold. It fucking sucks.”

Really, Patrick’s enjoying sharing kisses with Jonny in the shower and being waited on hand and foot, and he doesn’t want to ruin the magic by disappearing for three days. Patrick knows that at forty three he shouldn’t still have the desire to want to spend every moment with Jonny, but it’s something he’s learned to accept. It’s something he’s _had_ to accept. It’s like Jonny’s the fucking sun or something and he can’t break out of his orbit.

Thankfully Spencer accepts his explanation with ease, and once the team has started to make their way to the airport, he settles himself at his desk to start on the backlog of scouting reports. It’s quiet in the office, almost no noise outside to distract him from his work, and when his door clicks open, he can’t help but look towards the sound.

It’s Jonny with a bag of take out that looks suspiciously like Chipotle.

“My hero,” Patrick says, pushing the pile of reports to one side. “I hope there’s chips in there.”

“They have zero nutritional value,” Jonny says, but that’s not no, and seconds later Patrick’s got a bag of salty goodness in his hands. “Don’t get used to it.” 

Patrick hides his smile behind a mouthful of guacamole; Jonny might protest, but Patrick knows it’s all talk. At least when it comes to him.

They eat the rest of lunch in silence, Jonny flicking through the scouting reports between bites. Patrick doesn’t tell Jonny that he’d be good at this, that Patrick wants him on his team. They’ve done that conversation, and Patrick knows enough about Jonathan Toews to know when his mind is made up. But it doesn’t stop Patrick from wanting Jonny by his side, like he has been for the whole of Patrick’s career.

“This guy sounds interesting,” Jonny says, passing one of the files to Patrick. “He’s twenty two, but went undrafted. Playing in Germany right now and tearing it up.”

Patrick flicks through it and it doesn’t surprise him that Jonny likes this kid. Patrick likes the sound of him too. Maybe a trip to Germany is in his future.

There’s a second where he wonders if Jonny would want to come, but it’s fleeting. Patrick knows that even if Jonny wanted to come, he’d say no.

“If you’re gonna hang out in here all day, you can get to work,” Patrick says instead, and Jonny laughs.

“Only because you asked so nicely,” he says softly, but Patrick knows the words mean _I’m only doing this because you’re Patrick Kane_ , and he ducks his head to hide his smile.

*****

They settle into an easy routine of food and kisses and sex and hockey, and Patrick sleeps better than he has in weeks with Jonny spooned up behind him each night. The Panthers win and then they lose, and Patrick spends too long with Spencer on the phone after the game, Jonny’s feet in his lap as they dissect exactly what went wrong.

Patrick wakes up the following morning to the bed moving; it takes him a second to realise that Jonny’s clearly awake and trying to untangle himself from Patrick with varying degrees of success. Once Jonny’s free, he buries himself further under the covers, intending to sleep as long as he can. He hasn’t heard his alarm yet.

“Go back to sleep,” Jonny murmurs, running his fingers through Patrick’s hair. Patrick leans into the touch, lets himself drift back to sleep as Jonny presses a kiss to his forehead.

Except the bed feels too empty without Jonny in it, and Patrick tosses and turns for as long as it takes for him to wake up before he follows Jonny downstairs.

Jonny’s sitting at the counter, a half drunk cup of coffee in front of him but it’s being ignored in favor of his phone. Patrick takes the opportunity and steals the drink from under Jonny’s nose; he expects it to be bitter because Jonny’s always claiming that sweeteners are going to give him cancer, but it’s exactly how Patrick drinks his own coffee.

He finishes the cup before pressing a kiss to the curve of Jonny’s mouth, and restarts the coffee machine for a second.

“You could have made me one too,” Patrick says, but Jonny shakes his head.

“You’d have stolen mine anyway and then bitched at me for not putting enough sugar in it.”

Jonny is—well, he’s not wrong. Patrick grins at him.

“I love you,” he says, and he almost regrets it until Jonny smiles back.

“Love you too. Even if you’re a coffee stealing asshole.”

“You like my asshole,” Patrick says nonsensically. Jonny makes a face, but doesn’t deny it, and Patrick can’t stop himself from kissing the stupid expression off Jonny’s face. Jonny curls his hand around Patrick’s hip and pulls him closer, their matching smiles brushing against each other as they kiss.

 _You could have this every day_ part of his brain tries to tell him, but Patrick ignores it in favor of slipping his hand into Jonny’s boxer briefs, palming Jonny’s half hard dick. This he can do. Thinking about doing this with Jonny every day isn’t going to make him happier than he is in this moment.

Except Jonny bats his hand away, like he doesn’t _want_ this, and Patrick’s about to ask why when Jonny explains.

“Owen,” Jonny says, and it clicks for Patrick then. They could take this back upstairs but Patrick’s happy _here_ , doesn’t want to ruin the moment by moving, and—

“No skate today,” he murmurs, “and they didn’t leave Nashville until midnight.”

Patrick doesn’t manage to get the words out around Jonny kissing him, but it’s definitely implied that Owen would have to be some kind of insane person to be awake at seven am after only four hours of sleep. He thinks Jonny understands when he deepens the kiss, wrapping an arm around Patrick’s waist, effectively trapping him against the counter.

Patrick melts into Jonny’s touch, his fingers dipping below his waistband, rough calluses skimming the smooth skin against his hip. He shivers; Jonny knows all of his buttons, remembers how Jonny had been almost embarrassed when Patrick had realised that he’d made a mental map of all of Patrick’s weak spots.

It was never something that Jonny should have been embarrassed about. What’s more embarrassing is how weak Patrick is for Jonny, that Jonny can barely touch him and Patrick’s still like putty in his hands. That Patrick can barely think at times when Jonny’s touching him. That being the sole recipient of Jonny’s intense focus makes him feel special. That he’s the only person in the world worthy of Jonny’s attention.

But this morning, he doesn’t want to take whatever Jonny’s giving.

Patrick breaks the kiss, taking a second to appreciate the outline of Jonny’s dick in his boxer briefs. There’s a wet spot on the fabric and Patrick presses his thumb there, smiling when Jonny gasps into his mouth. 

Because Jonny might know all of Patrick’s weak spots, but it’s not like Patrick can’t return the favour.

It’s easy to push Jonny’s boxer briefs down until they’re past his hips, his cock springing free. Patrick wants to suck on it until Jonny’s begging to come and there’s a second where Patrick considers going to his knees but they’re in the kitchen and Patrick has a marble floor. He’s not sure his knees would ever thank him for it.

Instead he sucks on two of his fingers; once they’re nice and wet he presses them into the crack of Jonny’s _perfect_ ass, sliding them down until they’re pressing at Jonny’s hole. He doesn't push inside, instead he skims them over the ring of muscle, feeling Jonny clench on nothing.

“Fucking tease,” Jonny says with gritted teeth, and Patrick laughs.

“Yep,” Patrick says, smirking. Jonny rolls his eyes before he presses his mouth to Patrick’s, effectively shutting him up.

Patrick is the exact kind of _fucking tease_ Jonny’s calling him when he presses his thumb against the tip of Jonny’s cock, rubbing it against the slit. He lets his fingers skim over the underside of Jonny’s cock until Jonny’s gasping for more into his mouth.

Jonny’s hand settles on Patrick’s hip as Patrick’s hand curls around his cock. Patrick jerks him off the way Jonny likes, his grip loose, the precome Jonny’s leaking everywhere enough to stop it being too rough. It doesn’t take long until Jonny’s pressing back against Patrick’s fingers, his head tipped back as he tells Patrick how good his hands are, and—

There’s a clatter behind Patrick and he freezes, torn out of the moment. His eyes flick to Jonny, and once he does he can’t look away. Jonny’s flushed and pale at the same time, his eyes dark, and he’s wearing the most horrible deer in headlights expression that Patrick’s ever seen.

 _Shit_ Patrick thinks. And then he can’t think anything else.

“Owen,” Jonny says shakily, but Owen cuts him off.

“Nope,” he says. “I’m going back to bed. Maybe when I wake up again you won’t be having sex _in the kitchen_.”

Patrick can’t look at Owen, just leans further into Jonny, presses his face into Jonny’s neck. Jonny’s arm is still wrapped around his waist and he pulls Patrick closer towards him, letting Patrick take all the comfort he needs right now. Patrick closes his eyes until he hears the footsteps on the stairs, and even when he opens them he can’t even look at Jonny, just keeps his eyes trained on the picture hanging on the wall next to the refrigerator.

“You okay?” Jonny asks, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s forehead. Patrick doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know if he’s okay. “He’s a good kid, Peeks.”

Patrick doesn’t know how to explain that’s not what he’s worried about. He doesn’t think Owen’s gonna care he’s sleeping with a guy. Maybe he won’t even care that the guy is Jonny.

But even lying by omission is lying, and he’s had plenty of chances to tell Owen the truth. He’s has plenty of time to say _hey, I can’t come out but we’re on the same team_. Plenty of time to tell Owen he’s not alone.

 _These times, they are a-changin’_ , he thinks, and then stops himself. Bob Dylan never brightened anyone’s mood.

Instead Patrick presses himself closer to Jonny, lets Jonny press kisses against his hairline, and tries to forget that he ever has to leave the safety of Jonny’s arms.

*****

Patrick flees the house before Owen can find him. It’s quiet in the Panthers offices—there’s no reason for anyone else to be there today—and Patrick tries to bury himself in his work. Except his mind keeps flicking back to the clatter of Owen’s phone and Jonny’s face, and—

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. This isn’t helping anyone.

 _is owen at home?_ he texts Jonny. 

_left about an hour ago_ Jonny replies. _u want food?_

Patrick takes a second to think about it before he feels a wave of nausea and tells Jonny no. He’s not sure he could eat anything at this point. Even his coffee’s been left untouched.

 _is he ok_ Patrick asks. There’s a series of dots which appear and disappear before Jonny’s reply comes through.

_u need to talk to him_

It’s not a yes, and Patrick buries his face in his hands. 

He wonders if Owen’s here—it might be a day off for most players, but Owen’s work ethic is similar to Jonny’s. He’s not happy unless he’s at his peak. And he hadn’t registered a point on the road trip.

One of the first thing Patrick installed in the Panthers stadium was a virtual rink for the players to train on. It’s not the same as being in front of a goaltender and on an actual sheet of ice, but the fact that it’s smart enough to mimic any goalie who’s played more than fifty games—it’s pretty fucking amazing. If it was Jonny who hadn’t been scoring and needed to work out some shit, Patrick _knows_ he’d be in the gym. But if this had been around when Jonny was a too serious rookie—

Patrick heads to the basement without a second thought. He’s not surprised when he can hear the scrape of blades when he steps out of the elevator, close followed by the thud of a puck hitting a screen.

He watches as Owen tries another shot, attempting a ridiculous spinorama before going top shelf. The virtual goaltender saves it. Patrick thinks it _might_ be Lundqvist on the screen.

“Jonny was never that fancy,” Patrick says.

“He would have fallen on his ass,” Owen says. “And from what I saw this morning, he’s got a nice one.”

It’s not a chirp. Owen’s words are bitter, and Patrick swallows nervously.

“Owen—” Patrick starts, but Owen cuts him off.

“I fucking get why you never came out,” Owen says. “It’s fucking shit sometimes. But you could have told me that hey, you’re not the only gay player ever to play in the NHL _because I am too_. It would have been really fucking nice to know that when you told me this is _our_ fight you actually fucking meant it. That I’m not fighting the shitty fight alone.”

“I’m not gay,” Patrick says automatically. It’s the first time he’s ever felt guilty about lying by omission because he might not be gay, but there is absolutely a guy he is irredeemably gay for. Fuck Jonathan Toews and his everything.

“Gay, bi, whatever,” Owen says, his tone measured. “But I know I didn’t imagine you two fucking in the kitchen this morning.”

“Bi,” Patrick says. It’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud, and it feels strange on his tongue. “And I—I’ve never told anyone, Owen. It’s not—fuck, you’re _eighteen_ and you’re braver than I could ever be.”

Owen’s expression softens, almost like he feels sorry for Patrick. Jesus. He’s being pitied by an eighteen year old. But it’s probably better than the alternative.

“So you never thought about coming out?” Owen asks quietly.

“I thought about it.” Patrick says honestly. “Me and Jonny—we talked about it before we retired. He always talked about it like it’d make the world better. That we were going to do a good thing. And I feel fucking shit that maybe it would have been better for you, but I thought about what my parents would think, and—I couldn’t do it.”

“So this is better?”

“It has to be like this,” Patrick says sadly. It’s not really an answer to Owen’s question. Sometimes Patrick wants Jonny by his side so badly it hurts. And then he thinks about his dad and the way that he doesn’t even mention Owen in his post game texts, and Patrick remembers exactly why he can’t. “Are—are we good?”

Owen pauses for a second before he holds his fist out. Patrick bumps it with his own.

“I get it, you know?” Owen says. “It’s not easy for anyone. But if you ever change your mind—I’ll be right behind you waving the rainbow flags. Although, after that kitchen thing, maybe not. That shit has scarred me _for life_.”

“Got it,” Patrick says with a smile. “I promise, no more kitchen sex.”

“It would have been hot if it was just Jonny,” Owen says, a shit eating grin pasted on his face. “But it was like when I walked in on my parents having sex. Super gross.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick says around a grin. “I know that Jonny’s ass will be front and center in your jerk off material.”

Owen splutters, the flush rising up his cheeks, and Patrick’s grin gets wider. He thinks they’re gonna be okay.

*****

Jonny’s never been someone who holds back his affection, but Patrick still finds it surprising when Jonny all but turns into an almost perfect image of a househusband. He kisses Patrick before he leaves the house each morning and kisses him when gets home. The only reason it’s almost perfect is that he sends Patrick to work with a packed lunch each day, but he leaves the kitchen a disaster each night, letting Patrick clean up while Jonny argues over the remote with Owen. He also seems to be allergic to the laundry basket, a pile of clothing trailing across the floor of Patrick’s bedroom each night. Normally the mess would piss Patrick off, but this is Jonny. Patrick’s known Jonny’s a slob since they were rookies.

It’s _easy_ is the thing; a slice of domesticity they’ve never really had, and when he comes home to Jonny and Owen bickering in the kitchen over something trivial, he isn’t sure he wants to give it up.

Jonny’s just as thoughtful as ever, and the day before Patrick’s birthday it doesn’t surprise Patrick when Jonny turns up at his office and tells Patrick they have dinner reservations. Jonny looks _good_ , dressed in a white shirt and dark jeans, the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms. He’s even wearing his nice shoes.

“Fancy,” Patrick says. Jonny doesn’t dress up unless he has to. “Where we going?”

It turns out they’re going to Alter and after Jonny spells his name out for the hostess, they’re whisked away to a table that’s basically in the kitchen. Once they’re seated one of the chefs personally comes out to speak to them, and Patrick’s speechless as they discuss Jonny’s many, many food restrictions and how they’re going to work around them.

They’re brought an amuse bouche, and Patrick’s too busy watching Jonny try and disguise his disgust at the pronunciation to actually hear what he’s about to eat, but it doesn’t matter once he puts it into his mouth. It’s _delicious_ , spicy and sweet, and Patrick realises that he’s missed this. In the later parts of their career, dinner with Jonny had meant tasting menus and wine pairings, and Patrick had come to love it as much as Jonny did.

Florida isn’t Chicago, especially Sunrise, but the food in Alter is some of the best Patrick’s had since he moved here. Every course is an explosion of flavor on his tongue, and while Jonny listens to the chef explain the depth of flavour in the three way fois gras dish, Patrick wonders how Jonny got reservations at such short notice for the chef’s table.

It doesn’t matter once the buttery, rich flavour explodes on his tongue, and by the end of the seven course meal, he’s not sure he ever wants to move again. Maybe he could just live in Alter.

“Gotta go home, Peeks,” Jonny says with a too wide smile, the flush on his cheeks not just from the wine pairing Jonny had insisted on. “Think you’ll like what I’ve got waiting for you there.”

What Jonny has waiting for him there is his fingers and his dick, and Patrick’s taken apart with Jonny’s hands until he’s begging for Jonny to fuck him. Jonny does, but he pushes inside Patrick like Patrick’s breakable, like he’s precious, like Jonny doesn’t want to hurt him. Patrick feels the tears prickling at the corner of his eyes, overwhelmed with emotion as Jonny presses kisses to his jaw, his ear, his ever receding hairline.

“Peeks,” Jonny says, brushing a tear from where it’s escaped onto his skin.

“I—” Patrick starts, but he doesn’t know where to end. Because he doesn’t want _this_ to end. “Thanks. For—for everything.” 

Jonny smiles, and kisses Patrick, drowning the rest of his words until Patrick can’t think of anything other than Jonny’s name.

*****

They win on his birthday, and once they get home Jonny steers him to bed. Patrick doesn’t protest. They curl up together under the sheets, Jonny’s heartbeat a familiar, steady rhythm against Patrick’s cheek.

“‘m going home tomorrow,” Jonny murmurs. Patrick’s not surprised. He flies to Buffalo tomorrow, and it’s not like he can skip out on that roadtrip too. And leaving Jonny here in his house feels too much like the secret relationship that Jonny doesn’t want.

“You better say goodbye this time,” Patrick mumbles into Jonny’s chest. Jonny just pulls him tighter, a hand curled into his hair.

“I promise,” he says, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s forehead.

Jonny doesn’t break his promise, and they wake up tangled together, sharing gross morning breath kisses before Patrick’s alarm pulls them out of bed. There’s breakfast, and a hug at the door where neither of them want to let go, Jonny telling him in no uncertain terms that he needs to look after himself better.

It’s easier said than done.

He feels untethered throughout the morning; it’s stupid, because he _knows_ Jonny’s only a phone call away if Patrick truly needs something, but his phone’s quiet without Jonny’s barrage of messages to find out if he’s hydrating and asking what he wants for lunch and with links to YouTube videos that Patrick spends too long laughing at. He hadn’t realised exactly how much he’d been relying on Jonny until he’s gone. 

And it’s not like they’re going to go _back_ to that while they’re thousands of miles apart. It’s too hard on both of them.

It doesn’t stop him sending Jonny the plane emoticon when they board the flight to Buffalo. He gets back a thumbs up. It’s probably more than he could have hoped for.

Owen gives him a look when once they land, but he’s thankfully silent on the bus, and Patrick’s glad his parents are waiting for him when they get to the hotel so he can escape Owen’s pointed words. He hugs them both, his mom catching him up on all of the family news while the rest of the team disperse to their rooms, and by the time she’s done there’s only an empty lobby and Patrick’s bags.

“That kid,” his dad says once Patrick’s trapped in the car. Patrick swallows nervously. “You find anywhere else for him to live yet?”

“No,” Patrick says. He doesn’t correct his dad that he’s not actually looking to find Owen anywhere else to live. “Owen’s a good kid, dad. Nothing like I was at eighteen. I mean, he cleans up after himself and even knows where the washer and dryer is.”

“Probably genetic,” his dad mutters. Patrick bites his tongue. “I don’t know if it’s sending the right message. Having him live with you. People think—”

“Dad,” Patrick interrupts. He can’t listen to this. “People can think whatever they fucking want.”

“Language, Patrick,” his mom chastises. Patrick resists the urge to roll his eyes. With just one word his parents have the ability to make him feel twelve again, and Patrick hates it. His mom’s heard him curse a thousand times and never said a word. But trying to defend someone who’s gay—in her book that’s not acceptable. And she might not say it out loud, but Patrick knows enough to know it’s true.

“Sorry,” he mutters, even though he’s not.

They slip into silence, but it’s not a comfortable one. Patrick can tell his dad wants to say something else about Owen, or the team, but Patrick’s thankful that for once he manages to keep his mouth shut. He doesn’t want this to turn into an argument over whether Patrick did the right thing by drafting Owen, or even worse, that Owen shouldn’t be near a hockey rink. 

He thinks of McAdams telling the world that his cousin is dead because he’s gay. He thinks of Owen trying to prove that he belongs as much as anyone else does. He thinks of Jonny kissing him goodbye, every shared breath between them a promise that no matter what, Jonny’s always going to be there for him.

Patrick closes his eyes and tries not to let the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes escape.

*****

His parents have organised a mini family reunion that evening, and once Patrick’s been hugged by all three of his sisters at the same time, he makes his way around the room to speak to the cousins he only likes the Instagram posts of and the aunts and uncles he only sees at weddings.

It seems like all of the Kanes have an opinion on Patrick’s life, and by the time he’s heard six variations on disappointing his parents because they’re not getting any grandkids, and an another six on the draft choice that they don’t agree with, Patrick’s at his breaking point. The only place not filled with Kanes is outside; it’s close to freezing, but it doesn’t stop him sitting at the edge of the basketball court that’s still sloppily marked on the concrete, the quiet instantly calming him.

It’s not dark enough to see the stars but Patrick imagines them anyway. He remembers Jonny showing him the constellations before they left Chicago for good; they’d gone up to Wisconsin right before training camp had started, and even though Patrick had protested the whole time about having to sleep on the ground, Jonny had made sure he’d enjoyed himself. 

It’s easy now to imagine Jonny pressed against his back, Jonny’s hand resting on his stomach, his lips trailing over Patrick’s ear as he described the stars in the sky, telling him a story behind each one. Patrick had called him a hippie, and Jonny had pressed kisses against his skin until all Patrick was thinking about was Jonny.

He reaches into his pocket for his phone and snaps a photo before he sends it to Jonny. The caption just reads _maybe camping wasn’t so bad_.

There’s a click of shoes on the concrete and Patrick looks up to see what might be one of his sisters silhouetted in the porch light. When she takes a step closer she’s plunged into darkness, and Patrick smiles when he hears Erica’s familiar voice when she speaks.

“Thought I might find you out here,” Erica says from the darkness. Patrick waits until she’s in view before patting the concrete next to him. She looks despairingly at him before joining him on the freezing ground, her legs stretched out in front of her, her ankles crossed. “You are lucky I love you, Pattycakes. My feet feel like they’re gonna fall off.”

“It’s quiet out here,” he says as an explanation. “Kinda needed it after that.”

“If it’s any consolation, marriage sucks,” Erica says. It makes Patrick laugh. Her divorce hadn’t been the prettiest. “You don’t know how lucky you are. All I get asked if when I’m having a second kid.”

“Try being the family disappointment because you’re not giving your parents grandkids,” Patrick offers. “Apparently I’m a shitty Catholic.”

“Me too,” Erica says. “But I learned to be okay with that. And I think you should too, Pat. You’re a role model for so many kids out there, you know? And taking a chance on Cooper—I hope it’s the start of something good. So if you have to throw your Catholic card in the trash, so be it. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Erica,” he says. It’s nice to hear it from someone who isn’t Jonny. From someone that doesn’t have any kind of interest in the decisions that he makes.

“Team Patrica forever, right?” Erica says. Patrick smiles. “I’m on your side, you know. Maybe _you_ should be on your side too.”

Her words are pointed, and Patrick swallows. He doesn’t know if she’s talking about their dad always trying to get Patrick to live the life that his dad wants, or if she’s talking about being true to himself and admitting that he’s never not going to be in love with Jonny. He’s not sure it really matters.

“I’m trying,” Patrick say softly. “You wanna blow this joint?”

“So much,” Erica says. “You up for the latest superhero movie and popcorn?”

Patrick is, and while Erica grabs her son he hides in her car, far away from the circling vultures back inside. He’s sure Erica will make up some ridiculous excuse to why he’s leaving his own family reunion, and it’s confirmed as Erica hops into the driver’s seat.

“Told them you were puking,” she says. “Mom was concerned it was the beef. I didn’t tell her it was more likely to be the Catholic guilt.”

Patrick fist bumps his nephew as he clambers in the car too, and he’s soon being whisked away to a house that feels more like home than his own does. Erica grabs the blankets while Patrick microwaves popcorn with his nephew, and once they’re all curled together on the couch, he mouths _thank you_ at Erica.

She doesn’t need to tell him that this is what family should be. Patrick’s slowly starting to realise that.

*****

Skate next morning is non optional, and Patrick drags himself to the rink needing about three more hours of sleep. Erica had dropped him back to the hotel at a reasonable hour, but he hadn’t been able to sleep; instead his conversation with Erica had played over and over in his head until he couldn’t think about anything except telling her that living his own life means one where he’s sleeping with Jonny.

Even though she’s the least Catholic of all of them, Patrick knows there’s a difference between accepting that people are gay, and having your brother tell you that he’s sleeping with a man.

He’s on his way to a meeting about the power play when he finds his dad lurking in the corridors. His dad shouldn’t even _be_ here, but Patrick’s sure he has strings he can pull when he needs to. Probably using Patrick’s name to do it.

“I’ve got a meeting,” Patrick says after he hugs his dad. “You wanna grab lunch after?”

“I can’t,” his dad says. “Your mom has an appointment. Thought I’d spend some time with my son.”

“I’m working,” Patrick says. “I’m not—I can’t just skip on on this shit because I’m in Buffalo. This is my job now.”

The words are maybe more harsh than Patrick intended but it’s true; maybe he overindulged his dad when he was playing, maybe he left him hang around the rink more than he should have. But he doesn’t have time to do that anymore, and he knows his dad is proud of him, but there’s proud and there’s dropping in to see your forty four year old son in the middle of his work day.

His dad doesn’t get a chance to reply as there’s a herd of hockey players traipsing through the corridors. Patrick lets them past before he continues the conversation.

“Give me half an hour,” Patrick says. “Then we’ll get some food, yeah?”

His dad looks like he wants to protest but eventually he nods, and thirty four minutes later Patrick finds his dad waiting for him in the same spot as where he left him. Most of the guys are still in there, but Spencer’s letting them throw out as many ideas as they can for improvement, no matter how ridiculous, and neither the penalty kill nor coaching tactics are Patrick’s area of expertise.

“Ready?” Patrick asks, and his dad nods.

They’re halfway to the exit when Patrick literally bumps into Owen as he rounds a corner. There’s a split second where Patrick panics—he doesn’t want Owen to hear any of the shit that was coming out of his dad’s mouth yesterday—but maybe he can use this chance to show his dad that Owen’s just a normal, boring guy. One that just happens to sleep with guys.

“Owen, this is my dad. Dad, this is Owen,” Patrick says. Owen offers his hand to Patrick’s dad, but his dad doesn’t even glance at the outstretched hand. Doesn’t even try to meet Owen’s eyes, just focuses on a point behind his head. Patrick has to bite his tongue. Owen deserves better than this.

“Nice to meet you,” his dad says, none of the warmth in his tone that Patrick’s teammates always received. “You better not let us down out there.”

“Yes, sir,” Owen says quietly, lowering his hand. “I’ll do my best.”

“Don’t you forget you’re just out there because my son saw something good in you,” his dad says. “You wouldn’t be here without him.”

“I know,” Owen says honestly. It makes Patrick’s heart break, because it shouldn’t be like this. Owen should have been near the top of everyone’s list. “Patrick’s—”

“Mr Kane,” his dad corrects. “You should learn some manners, son. He’s your _boss_.”

“I’m not your son,” Owen retorts, and Patrick knows there’s more to come. Owen’s sarcastic streak stretches a mile wide. “But I could say the same thing about you. You’re not gonna catch gay cooties from shaking my hand.”

“Jesus,” Patrick mutters, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

“Kaner,” Owen says, stressing the nickname in a way that sounds more like a taunt. Patrick knows who it’s directed at. “We’ll catch up later, yeah? And _Mr Kane_ , the pleasure was absolutely all yours.”

Owen’s halfway down the corridor before Patrick can even blink, and Patrick watches him disappear around a corner. Patrick’s pretty sure it’s a corner to nowhere. He’s not sure if Owen meant to take it or not.

“You hear this?” his dad says, raising his voice just in case Owen’s still in hearing range. “You gonna let him disrespect us like that?”

“Dad,” Patrick says through gritted teeth. “He’s not wrong.”

“He’s putting everything we worked for at risk, Buzz. Coming in with his agenda—”

“Of what? Wanting to be accepted? Because that’s all he wants. To be treated like everyone else out there. Do you think I had an agenda when I was told I was too short to play?” Patrick waits for a reply from his dad, but he doesn’t get one. “It’s the fucking _same_ dad. He just wants to play hockey. He doesn’t want people judging him for who he sleeps with.”

“Maybe then he should be sleeping with girls then,” his dad mutters, and all Patrick can see is red. The urge to punch his dad is overwhelming, and he takes a second to close this eyes and breathe through the bubbling rage.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Patrick says bitterly. “Don’t wear my jersey.”

Patrick stalks away before his mouth gets him into even more trouble than it probably already has. Owen’s waiting for him around the corner, and in a second Patrick’s swept up in a hug that he desperately wants from someone else.

“Change of plans,” Owen says softly. “If you don’t tell Spencer I’m cheating on my diet plan, I’m thinking… pizza and _Friends_ reruns before my nap.”

“You’re a good kid, you know that?” Patrick tells Owen. Owen ducks his head, like he can’t believe Patrick’s complimenting him on something that isn’t hockey related. “One day you’re gonna be the best captain this team has ever seen.”

“I’ve got a pretty good role model,” Owen says earnestly. Patrick doesn’t get a chance to agree with him before he’s continuing. “And Jonny’s not bad either.”

It takes a second to realise that Owen means _him_ , and Patrick can’t stop the smile from spilling onto his face.

*****

Patrick doesn't see his dad right before the game, and he wants to see him even less after they lose 5-4 after an ugly turnover in OT. His dad manages to find him anyway, and he shares an awkward goodbye with the handful of family members his dad’s brought with him. Patrick wants to be anywhere else, and when he’s cornered by a reporter looking for a quote he doesn’t say no, allowing himself to be led away.

He’s exhausted when he steps onto the bus, and once he’s curled into an empty seat he checks his phone. There’s a whole bunch of shit he doesn’t really want to deal with, but close to the top there’s a message from Jonny asking if he’s okay. He knows he must look like a disaster if Jonny’s reaching out to him. 

_im fine_ he texts back before he slips his phone back into his pocket. Jonny can’t be his confidant right now.

They pick up another loss in Ottawa before they kick the shit out of Montreal, and Patrick flies back to Florida with a tiny piece of hope in his heart. He believes in this team. Sure, they’re too inconsistent, and they goaltending isn’t entirely where it needs to be. But he sees the same sparks he felt when he played with Jonny for the first time, when everything clicked and they turned into a legacy. 

He comes back to Earth with a thud on Thanksgiving; the players might have the day off but Patrick doesn’t get that luxury. He’s having to listen to Tom _again_ talk shit about Owen, talking about how he hasn’t put up a point in two games, even though in Buffalo he had a four point night.

Patrick doesn’t think too hard about the fact that Owen might have been trying to prove a point and worn himself out in the process. It’s something Patrick had to learn, something that takes a while to figure out when everything’s new and exciting and you’re still trying to prove you belong in the NHL. He can’t imagine how much worse it is for Owen.

“Do you even know how many points Cooper has this year, Tom?” Spencer cuts in, not even giving Patrick a chance to tell Tom that sending Owen to the AHL isn’t gonna happen. “Twenty three. That’s basically a point per game. And you’re telling me that this team is going to be better _without him_? Just because you don’t want to accept that someone who’s gay can play hockey better than you—it doesn’t mean he doesn’t belong on this team.”

There’s a silence that falls over the room. Tom look speechless. Patrick wants to applaud.

“Spencer’s right,” David says. “Coops is a good kid. He works hard, learns from his mistakes. He’s not gonna learn anything from being sent down.”

“And scoring really isn’t the issue right now,” Spencer adds. “The defence should work, but—”

“We could look at Johannsson,” Patrick says. He’s been having some success in Springfield since his finger healed. “Maybe he’ll have some chemistry with Mac.”

Tom’s blissfully silent for the rest of the meeting, and while Spencer and David debate d-pairings and potential weaknesses, Patrick wishes it was like this all of the time with none of the ugly homophobic undercurrent that Tom brings. Trying to change Tom’s opinions hasn’t worked so far, and Patrick’s pretty sure there’s only one option left.

And sure, it comes with a tiny piece of guilt, because Tom had actually been _great_ for the first few months after Patrick had been thrown headfirst into a GM role he wasn’t really ready for, but that had changed as soon as it became apparent that Patrick wasn’t going anywhere.

As a GM, Patrick needs his team to be on his side, and Tom’s definitely not on his side. He turns the thought over and over in his head, unable to even contribute to the conversation about the defence, until the meeting’s done, and Patrick knows it’s now or never. He’s put it off for as long as he can.

It’s easy to pull Tom aside after the meeting, to tell Tom that there’s something he’d like to discuss with him in private. Patrick hopes his tone conveys there isn’t an option to say no. There’s a pause before Tom nods his head, and he’s quiet as he follows Patrick back to his office.

Tom’s already leaning against the desk by the time Patrick closes the door behind him, his arms crossed, his eyes boring holes into Patrick. Like he knows _exactly_ what Patrick wants to talk to him about. Patrick feels his stomach turn. He’s never had to fire anyone before; Tom might be an asshole, but there’s a tiny part of Patrick that feels sorry for him. He’s never been good at ruining someone’s dreams, and apparently that includes homophobic assistant GMs.

“Tom,” Patrick says, pausing as he takes a shaky breath. “I don’t think—we have different ideas about what we want this team to be. And I don’t think it’s working with you here right now. I’m happy to give you a recommendation if you need it, but—”

“You’re firing me?” Tom asks, even though it’s not a question. Patrick thinks it’s pretty clear.

“I think it’s best for everyone if we mutually part ways,” Patrick says. Even though he’d be happy to tell the media that he fired Tom because he’s a homophobic asshole.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tom says assuredly. Patrick blinks. “Because if you fire me, I’ll tell the world that you’re fucking Jonathan Toews.”

Patrick’s world spins at the words, his heart pounding in his chest, stuck on the fact that Tom knows about him and Jonny. _Tom knows_ and he’s fucking blackmailing Patrick, and then he can’t breathe, too focused on _Tom knows_ swimming around in his head until the words become nothing more than noise.

“Jesus, you’re _actually_ fucking him?” Patrick distantly hears Tom say, and Patrick feels like he’s going to puke. “This is even better than I thought.”

“What?” Patrick croaks out, because nothing is making sense, the world still spinning around him as Tom takes a step closer to him. Patrick can see the cruel smile twisting his lips.

“I gave you credit for being smarter than this, Kane,” Tom says. Patrick still can’t think clearly enough to tell Tom that he’s not the dumb hockey stereotype that he’s had to work to shake off. “But in words that even dumb hockey players will understand, if you don’t do what I want, then I’ll tell the whole world that you’re gay. And so is your precious Toews.”

He pronounce it like it’s spelled. Patrick cringes. He wants to tell Tom to keep Jonny out of it, that Jonny’s done nothing wrong, but he waits a second too long and Tom’s already brushing past him, purposefully shoulder checking Patrick as he makes his way to the doorway.

“The next time we have a meeting,” Tom says. “I expect you to back me up when I say that Cooper doesn’t belong here.”

He leaves without giving Patrick a chance to reply.

Patrick’s not sure how long he’s frozen in place, but it’s longer than he wants to admit. Once he’s managed to get all his thoughts in order, it clicks that Tom didn’t actually know about him and Jonny. That it was meant to be just a made up story to get Patrick to do exactly what Tom wants.

And now Tom _actually_ knows, and—

“Fuck,” he says. Seems about right.


	3. Chapter 3

Patrick goes to Spencer’s for Thanksgiving and other than the cloud of doom hanging over his head, he has one of the best thanksgiving meals he has in years. Spencer’s wife is a better cook than Patrick’s mom is, and she makes a deep fried turkey in an homage to her childhood in Tennessee. It’s maybe the best turkey Patrick’s eaten in his life, and if he goes back for thirds, he knows that Spencer won’t tell.

He says his goodbyes later than he’d like considering they both have to be at an early skate the following morning, but the lights are on when he gets home, and Patrick’s glad he doesn’t have to worry about waking Owen.

Normally Owen doesn’t bring any of the rookies back to Patrick’s, claiming it’s ‘weird’, but LeBlanc and Kosi and Johannsson are all on the couch with his rookie, playing a questing game that despite numerous attempts, Patrick still doesn’t understand.

All four of them seem engrossed, and when Patrick spares a glance at the screen, it’s a part he doesn’t recognise. Clearly they all have more skills than Patrick does. Patrick’s not entirely sure that he wants LeBlanc in his house after what he said at camp, but Patrick’s the one that opened his house to Owen and told him to make himself at home. He’s not sure he can add an exception just for LeBlanc without telling Owen’s what he said, and it’s not Patrick’s place to do that.

He wants to tell all of them to get some sleep before the game tomorrow, but that’s probably overstepping his bounds as GM. So instead he tells them to sleep well before he climbs the stairs, and even before the door to his room is closed, the house is plunged into silence.

The silence doesn’t help him sleep, and Patrick tosses and turns until he’s cocooned in the covers, his sheets twisted round his feet. His brain won’t switch off, repeating the moment where Patrick’s life went to shit over and over, and when when the clock hits 7am, Patrick’s not sure he’s ready for the day ahead.

He’s on edge as he watches morning skate, jumping as when Spencer places a hand on his shoulder and pulls him to one side.

“You look like shit,” he tells Patrick. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admits quietly. “It’s fine.”

Spencer gives him a look, like he knows Patrick’s lying, but he doesn’t press the issue any further. Patrick’s glad, because right now their blue line needs all of Spencer’s help. Patrick’ll be fine on his own.

Except they lose, and then two days later they lose again, and then the management is back in Patrick’s office trying to figure out why a decent team on paper can’t see to get it together.

Patrick’s on edge during the meeting; he can’t keep up with the debate happening in the room. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the moment when Tom tells the rest of the team that he wants Cooper sent down, that Patrick agrees with him, that Patrick’s gay, that he’s fucking Jonny—

Patrick curls his hand around the mug in front of him, his fingers tapping out a beat against the handle to try and calm himself. It doesn’t work, his stomach churning as he tries to pay attention to what’s being discussed, but all he can feel is Tom’s eyes on him.

“I still think we should send Cooper down,” Tom interjects, still fully focused on Patrick, silently telling him that _this is it_. “If we send him down, it shows the team that no one’s safe.”

Patrick’s actually impressed. He’d expected another round of thinly veiled homophobia, but when Tom puts it like that—

“Maybe it’s not a bad idea,” Patrick says quietly, his eyes dropping to the coffee cup in front of him. “The team’s not working how it is now.”

When Patrick looks back at the table, most of the guys just look confused, but there’s a smug smile that’s unmissable curling at the edge of Tom’s lips. It’s been missed by almost everyone, but Spencer’s flicking his gaze between Tom and Patrick, trying to puzzle the pieces together. Patrick’s stomach churns. He doesn’t think Tom’s noticed, too wrapped up in his own ego, but Spencer’s too smart not to figure out that _something’s_ going on between them.

“I’ll start the paperwork today,” Patrick adds. “If we can tweak anything else—I’ll be in my office.”

*****

There’s a knock at Patrick’s door a couple of hours later, and when he’s looks up he’s wholly unsurprised to see Spencer. He’s carrying a bottle of what looks like whiskey along with a couple of glasses, and before Patrick can invite him in he’s taking a seat on the opposite side of Patrick’s desk, pouring them both a glass.

He nudges one of them over to Patrick’s side of the desk. Patrick manages a smile before he takes a sip.

“You shouldn’t be signing that,” Spencer says, once Patrick’s finished signing Owen’s rights away to the AHL. “And—I think you know it too.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Patrick admits. “Some days wish I’d never signed up for this job.”

It’s not entirely true. Patring loves putting the pieces together and letting Spencer tweak the final result. He loves that hockey still has a place for him. He even enjoys figuring out how to stay under the cap and make the best team he possibly can. But he doesn’t love the meetings, or having to make decisions on shit he knows nothing about, or having an assistant GM that’s trying to ruin the team Patrick’s building.

“I know you don’t mean that,” Spencer says. “And if you did, it’d just prove Tom right.”

“Maybe he _is_ right,” Patrick says. When he looks down at his glass it’s empty. He’s not sure how that happened. “Maybe I should just go and look at my name in the Hall of Fame and be done with it.”

“Patrick,” Spencer says, in the same tone he uses on the players when they’ve done something stupid. “ I know there are other guys who wouldn’t miss Tom if he wasn’t part of this team anymore. And you don’t need to agree with him just to keep the peace. If you found someone at least in the same _book_ as you—I don’t think we’d have an issue with it.”

“I wish I could,” Patrick says quietly. It’s the first time he’s admitted it to anyone he wasn’t in love with.

“Did Viola say you couldn’t? Because I don’t think he cares what you do as long as you’re making him the Benjamins.”

Patrick grins a little; he doesn’t think Spencer’s wrong. Viola granted him almost free rein of the team when he hired Patrick. As long as the Panthers are surviving, Viola couldn’t give a shit who was working for him.

But the only way he can explain _why_ he can’t fire Tom is to out himself and Jonny. There’s the thought that _Spencer_ could use it against him in the same way that Tom has, except he doesn’t think Spencer’s that kind of guy. He’s been even more supportive of having Owen on this team than Patrick dared dream.

And if it goes badly—well, it could be good practice for his future.

“Tom told me that if I fire him, he’ll tell everyone that I’m gay and sleeping with Jonny.”

“So? Just tell them that you’re not, it’s not like anyone would—”

Spencer stops talking as the realisation dawns on him that it’s not made up. That Patrick’s sleeping with Jonathan Toews. That Patrick is at least a little bit gay.

“How did he find out?” Spencer asks him.

“Apparently I’m a shitty liar. He didn’t know, but my face told him everything he fucking needed.”

“I don’t even know what I want to ask first,” Spencer says after a minute. “No, I got it. When do I need to start looking for a new job?”

“You don’t,” Patrick says honestly. He might as well go all out in their truth hour tonight. “I asked Jonny when I first took this job. He said no. I’m glad he did. This is your team now. And—you’re good at it.”

“I think you’ll find,” Spencer says, smiling, “that it’s _our_ team. And hey, does Coops know?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “He’s pretty perceptive.”

Patrick doesn’t tell Spencer that the only reason Owen knows about him and Jonny is because he saw them almost fucking in the kitchen when they thought they were alone. That’s definitely something Spencer _doesn’t_ need to know. 

“He’s a good kid,” Spencer agrees. “And he belongs here.”

“I know,” Patrick admits. “But—I’m not him. I don’t—I _can’t_ come out. So my choices are this or—I quit, I guess.”

“What’s stopping Tom from outing you even if you do this?” Spencer asks and _shit_. That wasn’t even part of Patrick’s thought process. 

“He wouldn’t, right?” Patrick says, because he can’t see why Tom would do that other than to ruin Patrick’s life. Except that’s what Tom wants. Tom wants to drive him out of Florida, take the GM job, and then accept all the credit for turning the team around. Fuck. “Jesus. I—I’m so fucking _stupid_.”

“Not stupid, just—okay. Maybe a _little_ stupid,” Spencer says, but it’s not unkind. Even if it was, it’s the truth. “Would coming out really be the worst thing? It’s not like you’re playing. I know it’s hasn’t been smooth sailing with Coops, but I think we’re getting there.”

Patrick thinks of his father and the way that his dad won’t even say Owen’s name. He thinks of Jackie and the way she’ll take her kids elsewhere if there’s a gay couple with even minimal PDA near them. He thinks of his mother and the way that she won’t talk to the lesbian couple on their street. He thinks of the NHL and how even though Owen’s the best rookie this season, most of the attention he’s getting is about what he does off the ice, rather than the points he’s racking up.

Patrick thinks of Jonny. How Jonny’s there for him no matter how much it hurts him. How Jonny holds tight when Patrick needs someone to believe in him. How Jonny’s stupid loud breathing relaxes him more than anything else. How Jonny knows Patrick better than anyone else, and still loves him. How every time Patrick sees Owen and Alex together, he wants that to be him and Jonny.

How Patrick’s been trying for fifteen years and he’s still in love with Jonathan Toews.

“I don’t know,” he says. It’s the first time the answer hasn’t been _yes_.

*****

They end up finishing off the bottle of whiskey between them, and somehow Patrick gets Owen to pick him up from the office. The evening’s cool for Florida, the drop in the humidity obvious, and Patrick tugs his jacket around him, leaning against a pillar while he waits.

A horn blaring startles him, and he opens his eyes to find Owen grinning at him from behind the wheel.

“Get in, Mr Drunky,” Owen says as Patrick clambers into the front seat. “But as your friendly neighbourhood designated driver, I have to inform you that this car is a no puking zone.”

“I’m not _that_ drunk,” Patrick says as he rests his head against the seat. “Jus’ too drunk to drive.”

“You’re slurring,” Owen says. Patrick hadn’t realised. “So I don’t think you get to make that call.”

It’s quiet in the car as Owen drives them home. The radio’s playing some country station that Owen likes, but it’s turned down low. Owen’s focussed on the road, as he should be. But it’s too quiet in the car, and Patrick can’t stop _thinking_ , and—

“How did you tell your parents that—” Patrick asks, and then stops. Even though Owen’s more like a friend than one of his players now, it still feels like he’s crossing a line.

“That I liked dick?” Owen fills in the blank for Patrick, and he’s grateful. It’s somehow less weird if Owen tells him, rather than answering a question. “I was fourteen. I told my mom I was going on a date. She asked who it was with. I told them it was a guy called Jake. She didn’t believe me until he turned up at the door.”

Patrick’s not sure that approach would work on his parents. He can’t imagine him telling them he’s going on a date with Jonny. He can’t imagine them believing it’s not a hockey date.

Actually he can’t imagine telling his dad at all.

“You’re lucky,” Patrick says. “I wish my dad would say your name.”

Patrick’s not drunk enough to miss the way that Owen’s face twists as he realises exactly what Patrick’s implying.

“The only reason I’m about to tell you this is because I don’t think you’ll remember this tomorrow. But your dad—I don’t—” Owen tails off, but Patrick prods him in the arm until Owen sighs and continues. “My mom—she was worried when I took Alex to Worlds. And I get it. She’s my mom, she was worried about me. But your dad—he’s worried about how you make him look. And that—it’s shitty.”

“Jonny agrees with you,” tumbles out of Patrick’s mouth before he can stop himself. He claps a palm over his mouth too late, blinking at Owen with wide eyes.

“Yeah, well, Jonny’s the smart one,” Owen says carefully. “It’s easier to see when it’s not your own dad, I guess.”

“I wish I had your dad,” Patrick mumbles. Owen’s grin twists a little.

“When I first told him, he was kind of quiet and weird about it. It took him a few months to stop asking me if I really wanted this. Like it was a _choice_. But—he’s great about it now.”

“Number one fan,” Patrick agrees.

“Maybe your dad’ll figure it out too.”

Patrick doesn’t think so, and when he looks at Owen, he’s not sure Owen believes it either. He wants to ask how Owen’s so smart, how he knows so much about Patrick’s dad, how he figured all of this shit out way before Patrick. But—

“I’m gonna puke,” Patrick says. Owen violently pulls the car over which doesn’t fucking _help_ and seconds later Patrick’s on his hands and knees on the side of the road, doing something he hasn’t done since he was a teenager. His fucking life.

Owen’s holding out a bottle of water as Patrick climbs back into the car. It’s lukewarm and kind of gross, but he swishes it around in his mouth before he spits it onto the pavement.

“Gross,” Owen remarks. Patrick doesn’t get this kid. He’s meant to be having _fun_.

“Having fun doesn’t mean puking on the side of the road,” Owen says. Patrick blinks at him. “You said all of that out loud.”

“Ugh,” Patrick says, closing his eyes. “Wake me when we get home.”

He dreams of Jonny’s soft eyes, replaced in a blink with Tom’s hateful ones, and he’s thankful when Owen shakes him awake, his familiar green eyes a relief to Patrick’s heart.

*****

Patrick feels like he’s dying when he drags himself out of bed. A shower doesn’t do much to help, and neither does his first cup of coffee.

He’s hoping the second will do the trick when Owen appears. Patrick doesn’t hesitate before pressing the buttons on the coffee machine, and it’s whirring into action before Owen even sits down.

“Thanks,” Patrick says softly. Owen shrugs.

“You’d do the same for me,” he says, like it’s just a fact of the world and not his opinion. “And I’m gonna make sure Spencer feels it in skate today.”

Patrick’s sure it’s the truth; he remembers skates with too bright lights after a late night, and the older he got, the worse the lights became. At least he can sit in a dark office if he needs to. There’s still a shit ton of paperwork, and—

 _Fuck_.

He’s not sure there’s any way to tell Owen that he’s about to get sent down that’s not going to break Owen’s heart. Maybe he should ease into the conversation, tell Owen he’s doing a great job before he hits him with the new like a sledgehammer. Except Patrick’s not entirely sure that would help. Owen already knows he’s doing great.

“I don’t—You’re gonna get sent down for a while,” Patrick says quietly. “I don’t want to. But—there’s some shit with Tom, and I need to figure some shit out.”

“I don’t get it,” Owen says. “What do I have to do with this?”

And Patrick can’t hold it in any more; he finds himself spilling everything to Owen, the whole, stupid soap opera of Patrick Kane’s life laid on the counter between them, Owen’s harsh truths about his father echoing his Patrick’s head as he lays out the plan he’d figured out while the world spun around him.

“You don’t need to do that because of me,” Owen says after Patrick’s done, looking at his coffee rather than Patrick. “I’ll be okay.”

“It’s _really_ not about you,” Patrick corrects. “I mean, it is. But my sister, when I was back in Buffalo? She told me I need to start living the life I want to live. And the first thing I want is to stop having to listen to homophobic dickbags.”

“I thought the first thing you’d want is a shit ton of sex with Jonny,” Owen says smirking. Patrick can feel himself flush. Owen’s not wrong.

“That’s a pretty nice side effect,” Patrick says. He doesn’t add _I hope_ onto the end. Coming out had never been Jonny’s issue, but Patrick’s sure that even Jonny’ll have his doubts. It was never going to be as easy as Jonny made it out to be. “Maybe I’ll leave you in Springfield while we desecrate the kitchen again.”

“Not thinking about it,” Owen says, and puts his hands over his ears. Patrick laughs. He’s gonna miss this kid.

*****

Patrick makes a beeline for the social media team when he gets to the offices. Mostly he’s interested in talking to Natalie. She’s good with the players; they spill secrets in front of the camera because they feel comfortable talking to her, and Patrick’s hoping that she can have the same effect on him.

He knows that he could never stand in front of a camera and tell the world he’s bi. Even though telling Spencer had lifted a tiny part of the weight off his shoulders, the thought of the public judging him, analysing every facial expression—Patrick feels nauseous just at the thought. This way he can control the narrative, and as much as he hates that phrase, he’s come to realise that sometimes it’s the best way forward.

“Nat,” Patrick says, and she looks up from where she’s editing something that looks like a Christmas video. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“Sure,” she says with a smile, hitting save on the video before she closes it down. “Make yourself at home.”

Patrick takes in the cluttered desk full of photos of what Patrick assumes is her family, the Christmas lights adoring her monitor, the upbeat song she has quietly playing through her speakers, and he instantly feels a little bit more relaxed. He’s not sure how she does it.

“I need your help,” he says as he takes a seat. Natalie grins back at him.

“I got that,” she says, grinning. “Having Patrick Kane in my office is like, some kind of ghost of Christmas _never_ shit.”

“Just shows that you’re doing a great job,” Patrick says honestly. Even if she wasn’t, he knows nothing about social media, other than if you get shit drunk and wear a dumb t-shirt then your face is gonna get plastered all over it.

“I know,” she says, but there’s no arrogance in her tone, just self assuredness. “So are you gonna tell me what you need help with, or is this more like twenty questions?”

“It’s—uh,” Patrick starts, but his mouth suddenly feels like cotton and he can’t form the words. To Natalie’s credit, she doesn’t push him, just waits until he’s ready to speak. Patrick swallows, composing the words in his brain before he continues. “I need to write, uh, a letter, I guess?” 

“Okay,” she says. Patrick can see the cogs whirring in her brain. “What kind of letter?”

Somehow Natalie extracts the information from him piece by piece until there’s nothing more to tell, working the same magic on him that she does the players. He feels raw when she’s done, his inner demons exposed for her to see, but there’s no pity in her expression. She looks like she _understands_. Like she wants to help him.

“You know, there can’t be any take backs on this,” she jokes, her lips curved in a soft smile. “I can’t help you delete this from the internet.”

“I know,” Patrick says quietly. “I want to do this.”

It’s a truth he hadn’t known until now. Telling Spencer had been one thing. He doesn’t know Natalie that well, and her easy acceptance had been exactly what Patrick needed to make himself start to feel a little more like Patrick Kane, and a little less like the person he’d tried so hard to be.

“Good,” Natalie says. “You draft what you want to say, and we’ll go from there. I’ll work on some of the media answers for the players. Have you thought about when you’re going to tell the team?”

Patrick hadn’t. It hadn’t been been a consideration for him, but Natalie’s right. They’re going to need a heads up on this, if only so they can rehearse the bland, stock answers that Natalie’s going to prep.

“I guess—closer?” Patrick answers, but it definitely sounds more like a question.

“You’ll get there, Patrick,” she says, and she squeezes his hand in reassurance.

Patrick really hopes so.

*****

It takes Patrick thirty minutes to come up with a first line that he’s happy with, but once he starts writing it’s easier than he thought it would be, the words pouring out onto the page. When he’s done he reads it through. Patrick doesn’t think it’s _awful_ but it’s certainly not something be could public; he’s not a writer by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s only a rough draft, and he’s sure that Natalie could manage to polish a turd if she needed to.

He checks her email address six times before he hits send and once he’s done he closes his inbox, trying hard to distract himself himself with something else so that he doesn’t continually refresh it looking for a reply.

Except Patrick hadn’t realised how lonely he’d been before Owen arrived; the house feels empty without him, no background noise to fill the space, no one to bounce ideas off about how Patrick could tweak the roster. Patrick knows their relationship isn’t the traditional one between GM and player, but it’s the one that feels _right_. Like Owen was always destined to become someone who Patrick thinks of as family.

He wonders how Owen’s getting on, and below the message from Sharpy chirping him for his fashion disaster in the last ‘Panthers on the Run’ video, there’s one from Spencer. It’s a photo of snow, the caption only _florida has thinned my blood im fucking freezing_.

Patrick can relate. Florida has multitude of problems, but he’s happiest when it’s warm. He still loves Chicago, but Chicago in the winter can suck it.

 _im working on it!_ is what he types back, and then he turns his attention to the multitude of unread messages on his phone. A quick scroll shows that none of them are from the one person Patrick both wants to talk to, and wants to avoid. He wants to tell Jonny that he’s finally in the place he should have been seven years ago, that he’s ready to make his life _their_ life, but he doesn’t want to force Jonny into doing being with him if he doesn’t want it any more.

Jonny’s had seven years to come out, and he hasn’t done it. Maybe he’s moved on from the idea. Maybe he’s found someone better in Winnipeg in the last two weeks, and is going to marry them under a bunch of maple trees.

It’s probably best to stop that train of thought before it even starts. The thought of Jonny marrying someone else breaks Patrick’s heart. He’s not sure what he’d do if it was his reality.

So he starts working through the messages one by one, the Habs-Jets game playing in the background, and tries to distract himself from the sense of impending doom.

*****

Natalie meets him at his office door the following morning; she’s smiling, which Patrick guesses is a good sign. He doesn’t say anything as he unlocks the door, making sure it firmly closes behind him.

He might be coming out, but right now it’s on a strictly need to know basis. He knows how gossipy NHL teams can be, and right now, he doesn’t need that.

“Patrick,” Natalie says, and then stops as though she isn’t sure what to say next. Maybe it’s not as good as Patrick thought.

“I know I’m not an English major,” Patrick starts, but Natalie cuts him off.

“I didn’t expect you to be,” she says. “But it’s actually—it’s good. Maybe a few tweaks but overall it’s pretty solid. What I wanted to talk to you about what we’re gonna do with it.”

“That’s your job, right?” Patrick asks, because he hadn’t thought much past releasing a statement.

“Well, I’ve got this friend at the Players Tribune,” Natalie says. “If you’re interested.”

“You showed him?” Patrick asks, the fluttery sense of panic trying to rise in his chest. _Breathe_ , he tells himself, because he has to learn to get over this. He’s about to tell the world. He can’t be terrified that someone’s about to out him.

“No,” she says, and Patrick relaxes a little. “Well, I didn’t tell him it was you. I kinda pitched it as an article about the stigma of being gay in the NHL. But I think he’d be on board with this, if you are. All it’d be is one phone call with him. Nothing face to face.”

Patrick thinks about it. It’s just one more telephone call with Natalie’s friend. He’s gonna have to get used to people asking him about it, and it might be better if he can’t see the other person judging him during the conversation.

“Okay,” he says. “I think—it’d be good.”

“Sweet,” Natalie says, grinning. “These are his details.”

She hands him a scrap piece of paper with the name ‘Mark’ and the scrawl of a phone number underneath it. Patrick swallows nervously. His future is in the hands of someone who doesn’t even have a business card.

“He’s a good guy, Pat,” she continues. Patrick realises he’s probably been staring at the paper too long. “Wrote a decent article after your drafted Coops about how hopefully it’s gonna change the NHL.”

“I hope so too,” he says quietly. Natalie gives him a reassuring smile. “But maybe I can help a little too.”

*****

Mark is just as easy to talk to as Natalie is, and after Patrick forwards Mark the letter they discuss the rest of the article, Patrick with a plethora of stories from his playing days about the blind eye that was always turned to homophobia.

“There might have been ‘You Can Play’ nights,” he says, “but if you heard the shit that was said in locker rooms—the NHL had a long way to go.”

They’re just wrapping up when Spencer pokes his head around Patrick’s door. He beckons Spencer in, and Patrick’s not surprised takes his normal seat on the other side of Patrick’s desk while he waits for Patrick to finish his conversation.

“You missed skate,” Spencer says once Patrick’s hung up. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and he means it. “Just figuring out what my coming out article’s gonna say.”

Patrick’s never actually seen anyone’s jaw drop before, but Spencer comes close, his eyes wide in surprise, his mouth hanging open. Patrick feels the corner of his mouth tugging up into a smile, because that is some animated movie shit right there.

“Go big or go home, right?” Spencer says once he manages to collect his thoughts. It echoes what Patrick said when he hired him, when Patrick told his that he was wasting his talent in college hockey.

“You got it,” Patrick says. “When I thought about it—and okay, I was pretty drunk—apart from my parents, I couldn’t think of a good reason to stay in anymore. Maybe Tom pushed me sooner than I would have wanted, but—I’ve always been scared of losing the things I love if I came out. Turns out that I’d lose them even if I stayed in.”

Once Spencer’s left, he sends that same thought to Mark in an email. It’s a truth he hadn’t realised until that moment.

And if it helps one other person realise that too, it’ll be worth it.

*****

It takes Mark a couple of days to draft the article, and Patrick feels worn through once he’s read it. It’s maybe the most open he’s ever been when the media had been involved, and the thought of baring a tiny part of his his soul makes him feel more than a little vulnerable.

He trusts Mark in the same way he’d trusted Natalie, and he knows that if he said no at any point in the next few days, there wouldn’t be an article anymore. Except now that he’s thought about a future with Jonny that’s beyond blind panic over coming out, he can’t imagine anything else. Doesn’t _want_ anything else. 

Not that he’s told Jonny. He’s not sure he could still do this if Jonny doesn’t want that same future anymore.

Apart from Jonny, there’s only a handful of people he’d consider telling before this comes out—pun definitely _not_ intended. He probably _should_ tell his parents first, but it’s not something that even bares thinking about. Even in his wildest dreams, he can’t imagine any scenario where they’re anything other than barely accepting of this. Right now, he needs support.

Erica is the obvious, non hockey choice. He thinks about calling her, but he’s not sure he’s ready to say the words out loud again. He needs time to collect his thoughts and figure out his words, and eventually he decides the best way he can tell her is to send her a draft version of the article. 

_thought you might like to read this_ he says above the attachment, and doesn’t add a subject. 

He cooks a poor imitation of dinner—he’s not sure Jonny would approve of the amount of pasta in his bowl, or the amount of cream in his sauce—and tries not to check his phone every two seconds to see if Erica’s replied. He knows she has a kid, has other responsibilities besides checking her email, but the waiting game sucks.

The call comes fifty six minutes after he sent the email, and Patrick isn’t surprised when ‘erica’ flashes across his screen when he picks his phone up.

“Is this you living _your_ life?” she asks without an introduction. “If it is, I need details. Like, is he hot? Does he treat you right? Is is only interested in your money?”

“Yes, yes, and no,” Patrick says, a soft smile flashing across his face. “What is this, the third degree?”

“Try the _fourteenth_ degree,” Erica says pointedly. Clearly she finished the article, because that’s how long Patrick’s been hiding from the world. “I need deets of your mystery man, Pattycakes.”

“He’s not exactly mystery,” Patrick says. “It’s Jonny.”

“Like, _Jonny_ Jonny?” Erica asks. Like Patrick knows any more Jonnys. Actually, Patrick knows quite a lot of Jonnys, so it was kind of a dumb thought. But there’s only one other Jonny whose name is hanging next to his in the rafters. “No wonder you never wanted to go on a blind date with any of my friends.”

Patrick can’t help but laugh. Jonny is _not_ the only reason he didn’t want to go on a date with any of her friends.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. “For being so great.”

“And for my infinite wisdom, yes?” Erica jokes, and Patrick grins. “‘Cause you know I’m the best sister.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick says, but she’s not wrong. Erica’s easy acceptance is exactly what he needed. And if it had all turned to shit with _her_ , there would have been no chance with the rest of his family. “You’re the black sheep, that’s what you are.”

“And proud of it,” she says. “But I’m kinda glad you’re joining me on the dark side.”

“Cause you have cookies?” Patrick interrupts, and Erica laughs. Patrick can picture her shaking her head at her ‘nerdy’ brother. 

“Next time you’re here, I’ll bake you cookies,” she promises. “You’ll probably need them after seeing dad.”

There’s a pause where Patrick just knows Erica wants to ask about their parents but isn’t quite sure if she should. Divorce is about a thousand times better on the Tiki Kane scale than being gay is, and Erica still takes shit for it.

“I haven’t told them yet,” Patrick says. The thought of doing it makes him feel nauseous. “You’re the first.”

“Good luck,” Eria says softly. Patrick smiles wryly. He’s probably going to need it.

“Thanks,” he says. “For everything. I kinda thought you might be mad.”

“I mean—I get it, you know. I’m _kinda_ mad you didn’t think you could tell me.But I’m not mad that you’re gay. You’re my _brother_.”

“I’m not gay,” Patrick corrects, but he knows it’s futile. Sleeping with a man is going to equal gay for most people. 

“Whatever. It still makes you my brother. Who I love.”

“Love you too.”

There’s a weight lifted off his shoulders as he clicks the end call button, and for the first time he wonders if Jonny was right. If they should have come out after they’d hung up their skates like Jonny had wanted. He’s not sure he’d be _here_ , but Patrick doesn’t think that Hawks would have kicked him to the kerb. He’s almost certain there would have been a place for him in hockey back in Chicago.

Maybe Patrick could have _always_ had his cake and eaten it too, and there’s a pang of sadness for the seven wasted years he could have had with Jonny.

It doesn’t matter though; Patrick can’t turn back time, he can’t play might-have-beens with himself. He needs to focus on what _will_ be. And he hopes that’s still going to include Jonny.

*****

It takes about a week for the article to be polished enough for publication, and Patrick calls a team meeting for the day before the publication date. He knows that if he’d been in the same position as they are, he’d have appreciated a heads up. It’s not fair for them to walk into a media shitstorm unprepared.

Owen lands at Fort Lauderdale airport the morning of the meeting, and Patrick waits for him in arrivals, pulling Owen into a short hug once he reaches the baggage hall. There’s no official call up yet, but they don’t have a game until the following day anyway. Patrick’s got time to fire Tom before the article’s released.

“I fucking love Florida,” Owen says as he steps into the sunshine. “I know I’m the worst Canadian, I don’t give a fuck.”

It’s not fun to chirp when it’s all been done for him, but Patrick can relate. Two years of sunshine and he forgets how harsh the prolonged winters back home can be.

Owen doesn’t question him on what he’s got prepared to tell the team; instead he talks about how Miller’s an unwavering asshole who can rot in the frozen hell that is Springfield, and how the team pulled a dumb prank on him after the first game. Patrick smiles and nods in all the right places, but the words don’t really sink in.

It’s exactly what Patrick needs right now, and once Patrick parks at the rink, Owen follows him right into his office.

“You got nowhere better to be?” Patrick asks. Owen shakes his head.

“You need me more than anyone else right now,” Owen says. “This is your one shot. I’m not gonna let you fuck it up.”

“You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow,” Patrick raps. Owen gives him a look like he has no idea what Patrick is doing. “This opportunity comes once in a lifetime.”

“Is that a song?” Owen asks. Patrick’s on the edge of a kids these days moment when Owen continues. “Because I couldn’t tell under the god awful rapping. Whoever told you that you can do… that…. no.”

“I’m baller at rapping,” Patrick says, even though no one has ever said that to Patrick in his life. “And my palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy.”

It’s not a lie. At least he doesn’t have vomit on his sweater, although his stomach is currently a swirling pit of nausea Patrick’s a little concerned about.

“You gotta own this,” Owen says. It sounds like it might be a pep talk. Patrick’s never had one from an eighteen year old before. “You’re Patrick Kane. I’m sure if you went in there and told them you’d killed a dude, they’d probably _still_ want to play like you. The guys out there—they’ve been pretty great with me. You telling them you like fucking a guy on a regular isn’t gonna change how they think about you either.”

It’s not the worst pep talk Patrick’s ever heard. Especially since Owen’s probably right.

“C’mon,” Patrick says. He knows the best way to work off his nerves, and it’s not sitting in his office.

There’s a fresh sheet of ice on the rink, and Patrick feels the calm sweep over him as soon as his blades touch it. He skates with Owen for an hour. It starts out with lazy repetitive laps around the rink, but Owen soon turns it into a competition, one Owen only wins because of youth. At least, that’s what Patrick tells himself.

The moment he steps off the ice he feels nauseous again. He tells himself to breathe, that he’s a four time Stanley Cup champion, that no one’s going to care if he’s sleeping with a guy, but he’s not sure he believes himself. He needs Jonny by his side more than ever, because Jonny’s always been his biggest supporter, made him believe in things that Patrick didn’t know he could.

Except Jonny’s not here, and Patrick thinks that maybe needs to learn how to have faith in himself somewhere that isn’t on the ice.

*****

There isn’t any skate that morning, and it doesn’t surprise Patrick when he’s the first one to arrive at the meeting. He paces the length of the room until the first few players start trailing in, and he realises he can’t take the waiting, the nausea getting worse with each passing second. Instead he paces between the conference room and his office, counting the steps until he reaches a hundred and then starting all over again.

He’s reaches seven hundred and sixty five when there’s a hand on his elbow, and Patrick jumps. It’s thankfully Spencer, and Patrick lets out a shaky breath as Spencer’s expression slides towards concerned.

“I’m not gonna ask you if you’re ready,” Spencer says softly. “But when you are…”

“Give me five minutes,” Patrick says. Spencer gives him a supportive smile before he disappears back towards the conference room.

He doesn’t count the steps back this time, just tries to empty his mind. It doesn’t work; ‘Lose Yourself’ pops back into his head, and he raps softly to himself until he reaches the doorway, his mind curling around lyrics from his teenage years like a comfort blanket.

“On the surface he looks calm and ready to drop bombs,” Patrick says softly to himself, his smile twisted. He wipes his palm on his jacket before he slides the cue cards out, letting himself read over the first lines before he steps into the room.

 _Showtime_ , he thinks.

The room hushes as he walks towards the podium that Natalie’s set up for him, and once Patrick’s safely behind it he quickly scans the room. There are fifty pairs of eyes looking expectantly at him, and his stomach flips until he focuses on Owen’s supportive smile and dorky thumbs up. It’s more than what he needs right now.

“Thanks for coming in today,” Patrick says, even though it hadn’t been optional. “I’ll try and make this as fast as I can.”

He looks down at the first cue card; the words swim in front of him and even though he _should_ know what he’s going to say, the only thing in his mind is the echo of his heartbeat. He forces himself to breathe, to shut his eyes for a second, and when he opens them again the words are thankfully in focus.

Patrick clears his throat.

“This isn’t how I wanted to come out.”

Patrick doesn’t look up as flips the card over. He doesn’t want to see anyone’s reaction.

 _Straight to the point_ , Natalie had told him. She’s written the speech devoid of emotion, just a short statement about how Patrick’s not entirely straight, and how the details can be read in the article that’s going to be published the following day.

“By this time tomorrow, there’ll be an article in the Players Tribune with some more details. But I’m here today to give you the Cliff Notes version.”

Except now Patrick’s reading the words again, it feels too sterile. Too media polished. Patrick’s already baring his soul to everyone tomorrow. He can allow his team to have a tiny portion of it today.

“Actually, for a long time, I didn’t _want_ to come out,” Patrick says. It’s quiet, but the microphone still picks it up, broadcasting it to the whole room. “I know I’m going to get asked ‘why now’. Why I didn’t do it two months ago when Mac got suspended. Or even at the draft where I could have spoken from experience about how being different in a locker room shouldn’t change a thing.

“But I was scared. And I’m _still_ scared. I’ve got four cup rings at home, and the only thing I can think is that from now on I’m going to be the gay hockey player. And I’m not. Gay. I guess—I guess it would be bi. But I don’t think the media is going to be concerned with semantics.”

There’s a soft laugh from a few of the players, and Patrick’s mouth twists into a smile.

“The reason I’m doing this now is because even within this organisation, I’ve heard people ask whose dick Owen sucked to get the 2C spot. That’s not normal anywhere outside of the ice. And on most teams it’s just dismissed as hockey culture.

“I don’t want that to be normal. I don’t want the next player to feel like they have to hide away like I did for the last fifteen years. I don’t want someone else to have to worry that someone’s going to figure it out and hockey’s going to get taken away from them. I don’t want someone to never get to play a game because of who they choose to fuck.

“Not everyone else is as brave as Owen. I know I’m not. And he’s proof of how far we have to go, because if being gay didn’t matter to the other GMs out there, he wouldn’t be here.

“I know the vultures are gonna be on your guys as soon as the article’s released. If you’ve got any questions or concerns, or _anything_ , my door’s still open. That’s not gonna change. I’ll be in my office for the rest of the day, so if you want to talk… you know where I am. If you’ve got any questions now...”

Not one single person says anything, and Patrick lets out a relieved breath. Other than Owen and Spencer, almost everyone else looks confused or stunned or somewhere in that range of emotions, which really isn’t surprising. He’s sure that most people are going to be shocked. Even Tom looks like he’s had a truth bomb dropped on him. Which, Patrick guesses he has. He’s sure that Tom never expected him to come out.

Patrick _hopes_ Tom knows what comes next though, and as he leaves the room he gestures for Tom to follow him. It doesn’t take long until they’re alone in Patrick’s office, and there’s a strange moment of deja vu once Patrick closes the door, and Tom’s leaning against Patrick’s desk.

Tom isn’t carrying the same air of confidence as he was then, and Patrick tries hard to hide the smile twisting at his lips. He’s never been a revenge kind of guy, but he thinks this one? Is gonna be sweet.

“I think you know what comes next,” Patrick says. He means it to come out firm, but he’s not sure he fully manages to cover up the happiness in his voice. “I expect you to be gone by the end of the day.”

“I hope I can still count on you for a recommendation,” Tom says. Patrick’s momentarily stunned, his mind whirring over the possibility of Tom feeding him secrets from another team in agreement to keeping Tom’s own blackmailing secret safe.

But Patrick actually _has_ morals, and it’s not the way he wants to win. Even if it would be fun to have Tom under his thumb for a while.

“Of course,” Patrick says. “I’ll be sure to tell them that the first chance you get, you’ll be stabbing them in the back.”

Tom pales, and Patrick lets his mouth curve into a smile.

“I want to win, but not because you’re destroying a team from the inside. If I had my way, you’d never go near another team. This isn’t going to be a mutually parted ways situation, Tom. I’m firing you. And if I get asked _why_ , I’m going to tell them you’re a homophobic dick who doesn’t belong anywhere near the ice.”

“You wouldn’t,” Tom says shakily. And he’s probably right. Patrick probably wouldn’t. But—

“If you want to underestimate me again, be my guest,” Patrick says, taking a step towards Tom. He watches as Tom flinches under his gaze, pinned against the desk and unable to escape. “But I’m not kidding. If anyone asks me what you were like as my assistant, I’ll tell them the truth.”

Tom doesn’t say a word, just stares at Patrick as thought if he stares long enough, Patrick will cave and tell Tom something that he actually wants to hear. It’s a pity that Tom hasn’t learned how stubborn Patrick can be. He learned from the best.

Patrick doesn’t look away, and eventually Tom ducks his head in defeat. He mumbles something under his breath that Patrick doesn’t catch, and purposefully clips him on the shoulder as he passes him, slamming the door behind him as he leaves Patrick in peace.

It’s only then that Patrick realises his heart’s racing, fluttering in his chest as though he’s just finished two minutes on the ice. He’s suddenly shaky, the adrenaline wearing off all at once, and he collapses in the chair that’s more Spencer’s than anyone else’s.

“Jesus,” Patrick says, running a hand over his face. He doesn’t know if Tom’s going to spill Patrick’s story early, but at this point, Patrick couldn’t care less.

It’s too late to go back now.

*****

Patrick’s emotionally drained when he gets home; the parade of players and employees through his office this afternoon had mostly been positive, but after the fifteenth identical conversation, Patrick was done. He could happily sleep for an entire day at this point, but instead he locks himself in his home office. He’s got a phone call he needs to make.

Except when his thumb hovers over the number for his parents, he realises he can’t do it. He managed to stand in front of fifty people and tell them that he’s not straight, but he’s still not brave enough to tell his parents. Maybe if he had a different _kind_ of relationship with his parents, one where they were on equal footing. Maybe if his dad didn’t count all of Patrick’s achievements as his own.

The best he could hope for is them treating him as they do now, and pretending that him fucking guys is a thing that doesn’t happen. But his dad’s never met a subject he didn’t have an opinion on when it came to Patrick, and he doesn’t want to hear how his dad thinks he’s a freak. How Patrick doesn’t deserve happiness because of his choices.

 _The Players Tribune have an article about me releasing tomorrow._ is what he types to his parents. It takes him close to a minute to press the send button, and once he has he adds _you should read it_ even though he thinks that part was never in doubt.

 _Your finally getting the recognition you deserve_ is the text that comes back, and Patrick snorts. He’s sure that message won’t be the same tomorrow.

 _let me know what you think_ he sends back. And then he leaves the privacy of his office, because the gnawing feeling in his stomach is back, and he needs a distraction from it.

Owen’s in the kitchen, eating something that looks suspiciously like the leftovers Jonny left in the freezer for them. Patrick steals a green bean from Owen’s plate and joins him on the other side of the counter.

His phone vibrates, and Patrick pulls it out of his pocket and places it on the counter. _is everything ok honey_ flashes on the screen of his phone. It’s from his mother. Patrick turns it over. Then he turns it back. The message is still there. He doesn’t know what to say to that. _Nothing’s_ okay, and yet, somehow it might be.

“You tell them?” Owen says around a mouthful of food. Patrick shakes his head.

“Couldn’t do it. I told them to read the article tomorrow. It’s easier this way.”

Owen doesn’t say anything, just swallows and pushes the rest of the leftovers away.

“You need to chill out,” he says, like he’s the forty four year old and Patrick’s still a rookie. “Blanket found this really good Cuban place a couple of weeks ago. Or there’s an Italian by the rink that has a mean carbonara.”

“I don’t know,” is his eventual reply. He’s not sure if he even wants to eat _anything_ , the butterflies in his stomach getting worse even with the support he’s had from the few people that know.

“Tough shit,” Owen says, the same edge of determination that Jonny has, and Patrick gives in the same way that he always has done with Jonny.. “Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s 1999.”

“I fucking hope not,” Patrick mutters, but it doesn’t stop him from letting Owen take him to the Italian place near the rink. The carbs are way better than Jonny’s reheated leftovers would have been, the wine makes him tipsy but not drunk, and Owen’s pretty good company, even if he does have vastly wrong opinions about the way the Hawks didn’t deserve to win Patrick’s fourth Cup.

The wine also has the added effect of making him wonderfully sleepy, and once Patrick’s tucked himself in bed, he’s halfway through typing a message to Sharpy when his eyes drift shut.

*****

Patrick makes it into the office before the media storm begins, and the first thing he does is tell Melanie he’s not taking any calls today. The look on Melanie’s face tells him it’s a good plan, and Patrick flicks the lock on the back of the door before he buries himself in his work.

He can tell the exact moment the article’s released, because his own phone starts beeping incessantly at him. Patrick goes to silence it, but somehow he presses the wrong button and ends up answering a call. One look at the screen tells him that it’s Sharpy, and _fuck_ , he should have finished that text.

“When can I expect my wedding invite, Peekaboo?” Sharpy starts. “Or maybe that should be Mrs Captain Serious. Not sure that really flows off the tongue, though.”

Patrick smiles; Sharpy’s always gonna be Sharpy. Especially when it comes to Jonny. But—

“It wasn’t for him,” Patrick says, and he spills the story to Sharpy. Sharpy may be a tool, but he’s a great listener, and Patrick feels better once he’s bared his soul to one of his closest friends. Maybe he should have told Sharpy sooner.

“I’m claiming the movie rights,” Sharpy says once Patrick’s done, and Patrick laughs. “I’m not kidding, Kaner. You could make some serious money from this.”

“Like I need the money,” Patrick says. He’s not interested in selling anything. This is enough media attention for him, and it’s already bordering on too much. “And I don’t think my face is made for the cameras anymore.”

“You’re welcome here if you need a break,” Sharpy says seriously. “Although Chicago might not be the best place for you right now. You’re _everywhere_.”

“I’ll think about it,” Patrick promises. It’s not like he can go home for Christmas anymore. There’s been nothing from his parents about any of this, and while that might be better than the reaction he expected from his dad, the silence is _definitely_ meaningful. Like he’s not even worth their time any more.

“And if you need me to kick Tazer’s ass—” Sharpy says. Patrick doesn’t doubt it. Sharpy might be Jonny’s friend too, but Patrick’s always been his rookie. He’s always been on Patrick’s side when it counts. Patrick just hopes he doesn’t need to instruct the troops on this one.

“Neither of you can fight for shit,” Patrick chirps. “I’ll be sure to submit it to hockey fights dot com when we find out who’s the worse fighter.”

“Very funny, Peeks,” Sharpy says. “I offer to help and I get chirped. I’ll remember that.”

“Goodbye, Sharpy,” Patrick says, fondly rolling his eyes as he presses the end call button.

The number of messages on his phone has now increased to a number that makes Patrick dizzy, but a quick scroll through the messages folder tells him that Jonny still hasn’t sent him anything.

Patrick only hopes that it means Jonny’s on his way here, and not the thing he resolutely doesn’t want to think about.

*****

Patrick’s _almost_ glad they have a game that evening; it’s easy to outwait the media, especially after a win, and Patrick sneaks back to his office unscathed.

Spencer and Owen are waiting for him there, and Patrick lets both of them into his office with a questioning look.

“They’re waiting outside,” Spencer says one they’re inside Patrick’s office. “But boy genius here has a plan.”

Owen leaves first in Patrick’s car, the blacked out windows hopefully giving the media the idea that Patrick’s leaving. Ten minutes later, Patrick climbs into the back seat of Spencer’s car; he’s slouching as much as is still comfortable, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Patrick can barely breathe as the exit the parking lot; he doesn’t dare to glance at the sea of reporters who are waiting, just keeps his eyes closed as the camera flashes do their best to blind him.

Their meeting point is at the Chipotle down the street, and Patrick slides into his own passenger seat without even one reporter realising that he’s managed to leave without saying a word.

“Jesus,” Patrick says. “Is it always like this?”

“At first,” Owen says quietly. “They’ll get bored when they realise you’re not fucking randoms in bathhouses.”

Patrick laughs despite himself; he’s fucked enough _girls_ in semi-public to know that the media would only be interested because it’s another guy involved. It sucks, but it’s not like Patrick’s going to be worried about ever getting into that situation. Jonny’s kind of it for him.

That makes him frown, because he still hasn’t heard from Jonny. There have been plenty of supportive messages from his ex teammates—most of them variations on a theme of ‘I’m supportive but kind of hurt you didn’t tell me’— but from Jonny there’s been radio silence. It fucking sucks. The one person he actually wanted to say something—ideally to tell Patrick he’d be on the next flight, like he always promised—and there’s still nothing.

Jonny doesn’t live under a media rock. Especially not when Patrick’s involved. He _must_ know, and if he knows, then maybe he’s not here because he doesn’t want to be, and—

Patrick tells himself it’s better not to take that train of thought. Maybe Jonny will be there when he gets home. Maybe he’ll be waiting outside Patrick’s house with a boom box, or maybe even a bunch of flowers, because he knows Patrick’s a sucker for those romantic gestures that always seem to happen in movies.

Except when they get home, there’s no car on the driveway, there’s no Jonny on the porch, and the house is dark. Jonny’s not here.

“He’ll come,” Owen says. “For some unfathomable reason, he loves you.”

“Fuck off, rookie,” Patrick says, ruffling Owen’s hair. “You fucking love me too.”

Owen rolls his eyes, but it’s not a no.

“I don’t like, _movie_ love you,” he clarifies. “He can’t keep his eyes off you. It’s kind of nauseating.”

Patrick pauses, swallowing the _he doesn’t love me enough to be here_. Owen’s spent time with Jonny—more than Patrick had realised, if that conversation about Patrick’s dad was any indication—and he knows Owen’s not afraid to speak the truth. If Owen thinks Jonny’s gonna come, Patrick knows he should believe it too.

It’s just harder to believe when it’s Patrick’s own heart on the line.

“Besides,” Owen continues. “If he doesn’t come, I’ll kick his ass for you.”

“I’ll let Sharpy know he’ll have company,” Patrick says. “Prettiest tag team the NHL has ever seen.”

Owen laughs, throws a half empty bottle of water at Patrick, and tells him to get some sleep.

Patrick knows the last part might be easier said than done.

*****

Patrick sleeps about as well as he expects. He drags out leaving for work until the last possible second, _just in case_ Jonny’s decided to take the red eye, but deep down knows it’s stupid. Jonny knows where he works. Jonny could send a text. An extra ten minutes in his house isn’t going to change if Jonny’s on a flight right now.

There’s still no Jonny when Patrick gets home, but there _is_ Owen, and there’s ice cream and the NHL network, and if Patrick becomes the star of his own romcom—right now, he’ll take it.

It doesn’t take long for it to become a routine, and after five days and two solid wins for the team, Patrick’s willing to eat as much ice cream as it takes to get them into the playoffs. 

“This has nothing to do with it,” Owen says as he hands Patrick the tub of Chunky Monkey. “It’s like praying to the hockey gods. Only _you_ can change what you do out there. Eating ice cream isn’t gonna help.”

“You sound like Jonny,” Patrick says, and then wishes he hadn’t thought about it. Jonny believed in a lot of mumbo jumbo, but superstitions were too far even for him.

Patrick’s eyes flick to his phone automatically at the thought of he who should not be named, but there’s just a message from Jess waiting to be read. Nothing against Jess, but right now, there’s only one person Patrick’s wants to talk to.

“Beer?” Owen offers, clearly reading the disappointment on Patrick’s face, and he’s already disappeared before Patrick can reply.

 _when are you coming?_ Patrick types into the message screen on his phone. He doesn’t press send. He’s put his heart out there for Jonny to take already. This time, Jonny needs to be the one to take the next step.

Deep down he knows that coming out wasn’t for nothing, but without Jonny by his side, it sort of feels like it was.

***

The sun’s low in the sky when Patrick pulls into his driveway the following evening, and it takes him a second to realise there are already two cars already parked there.

One of them belongs to Owen, but the other—it looks suspiciously like Jonny’s Tesla.

It’s not an uncommon car now and Patrick manages to keep his emotions in check until he gets close enough to see the Manitoba plates. Because Jonny’s _finally_ here. Every negative thought he’s had over the last week has been replaced with happiness in less than one second, and he’s unable to keep the smile off his face as he steps out of the car.

His heart’s pounding with excitement as he rounds Jonny’s car and he has to stop the moment he sees Jonny sitting on his doorstep. Jonny looks _tired_ , leaning against one of the pillars, his eyes closed. There’s a bottle of beer in his hand, but there’s an unmistakable smile on his face, and with each step Patrick takes, it gets wider.

Jonny’s eyes flutter open as Patrick takes a seat next to him on the step and he plucks the bottle out of Jonny’s hand, taking a long sip. When he hands it back, Jonny’s eyes are fixed on his mouth. Patrick darts his tongue out to lick away a stray drop. And also to be an asshole. 

“Didn’t know if you were gonna come,” Patrick says, trying to sound like he’s not the happiest person in the world right now. He’s not sure it’s working.

“It’s been six days.”

“You always said you’d be on the next plane,” Patrick says. He’s trying to look hurt but he can feel the corner of his mouth curving into a smile even as he says it. “Didn’t know if you loved me anymore.”

“Fuck off,” Jonny says, shoving Patrick gently. “But—you didn’t—it’s not like you _told_ me, and—I guess I didn’t think this was ever gonna happen. You weren’t the only one who needed to figure their shit out, Peeks.”

“I get it,” Patrick says, because he does. It was never going to be as easy as Jonny made out it was gonna be after they retired.

“And I’m gonna need my car here anyway,” Jonny continues. Patrick knows that it’s just an excuse, can hear the lie in Jonny’s voice, and he presses his smile into Jonny’s shoulder like they’re twenty all over again.

When he looks up at Jonny, Jonny’s face is full of love. Patrick’s sure it’s reflected back in his own.

“Excuses, excuses,” Patrick chirps. “I know hockey didn’t make you so dumb you forgot you have enough money to buy a million cars if you wanted. And no, I don’t need a lecture on how this is saving the environment, blah blah blah.”

Jonny smiles at him then, the soft, crooked, Patrick-Kane-only smile that Patrick’s all too familiar with. 

“I thought of something else that could help that,” Jonny says, his voice dropped low as though someone else might overhear them.

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, leaning in so their mouths are almost touching. “What did you have in mind?”

Jonny traces Patrick’s knuckles with his fingers, and it makes the butterflies in his stomach dance. It’s stupid, because he’s kissed Jonny more times that he can count, more times than he _wants_ to count, but every time feels new and exciting.

“Well, we could save water by sharing showers,” Jonny says softly, his mouth brushing over Patrick’s. “Less laundry by sharing a bed.”

“Hmm,” Patrick says. He’s not convinced they’re going to create _less_ laundry with all of the sex he’s hoping they’re going to be having, but it’s not like he’s about to tell Jonny that. “I’m good with that.”

Jonny kisses him. It should be a perfect movie kiss, the culmination of _years_ of wanting pouring out into one of those sweeping camera angle kisses as the protagonist finally gets his man. It should be passionate, both holding each other as though they never want to let each other go, losing themselves in each other until the credits start rolling. Maybe with that Starship song playing as everything fades to black.

Instead Jonny’s smile is pressed against Patrick’s own, like they’re both too happy to do anything else right now. Which Patrick is. He’s not sure he could stop smiling even if he wanted to.

And Patrick realises it _is_ perfect. For them, at least.

“I love you,” Patrick murmurs between kisses. He’s got some time to make up for him, and his smile widens as he repeats himself. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” Jonny says seriously, and hauls Patrick into his lap.

It’s not the most comfortable position with Patrick’s knees digging into the concrete but it doesn’t take long for the world to narrow only to Jonny: the slide of his mouth against Patrick’s own, the fingers tucked into his pants, the hand curled around his hip. How everywhere Jonny touches feels like it’s on fire. Patrick doesn’t understand why it’s always like this with Jonny, how it feels like they’ve been doing this for fifteen years but at the same time, it always feels like the first time all over again.

He doesn’t hesitate to open his mouth when Jonny tongue slides over his lower lip, doesn’t protest when Jonny rubs his palm over Patrick’s semi, doesn’t say a word when Jonny flicks the button on his pants open. All Patrick wants to do is stay in their bubble forever, let Jonny take him apart and put him back together again, wants—

“I need a bell,” someone says from behind them. Patrick breaks the kiss and cranes his neck to find Owen standing at his open door. “No. Maybe you need a bell. Both of you. Bells for everyone.”

Patrick buries his face in Jonny’s shoulder, hoping that if he closes his eyes, this won’t have happened. When he opens his eyes again, Owen’s still standing by the doorway and, jesus, he’s taking a photo of them. Patrick has never hated Owen Cooper more than right now.

“Go the fuck away,” Patrick says, his words muffled into Jonny’s t-shirt. “We’re trying to have a moment.”

“Pretty sure your _moment_ should be in your bedroom and not on the porch,” Owen says, grinning. “Or at least _indoors_ where you won’t get arrested for public indecency.”

Patrick’s fairly certain that’s not going to happen. His house is pretty secluded and he’s got a long ass driveway he’s suddenly thankful for. But he’s all too familiar with paparazzi with long lenses, and even though he hasn’t been that interesting for years, it’s a different story now.

Patrick’s thoughts are reflected on Jonny’s face, and Patrick presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before resting their foreheads together.

“How do we get the rookie out of the house?” Patrick whispers loudly to Jonny.

“You couldn’t pay me enough to stay,” Owen says. “The Kane and Toews show is gross. Also you’re buying me and Blanket dinner.”

Owen waves Patrick’s black credit card at him, the one that’s for emergencies only. Patrick’s not entirely sure how Owen’s found it considering it lives in his kitchen drawer under the take out menus—and okay, that _might_ explain it—but he figures if anything in his life is going to warrant emergency spending, this is probably going to be it.

“No underage drinking,” Patrick warns. Owen just rolls his eyes. _Kids_. “But have fun and for the love of god, stay out late.”

“No promises,” Owen says. There’s a game tomorrow night. “But by midnight I hope you’ve both realised your bed isn’t a pumpkin and you can _use it_.”

Owen’s probably right, and while Owen heads towards his car, Patrick steals a soft kiss from Jonny, pressed to the corner of his mouth. Jonny tilts his head just so and they’re kissing again, soft and slow and all the things they’ve never been able to be.

“You gonna invite me in?” Jonny murmurs against Patrick’s mouth, his smile curving against Patrick’s own.

“What’s in it for me?” Patrick says with a smile. He twines his fingers with Jonny’s, squeezing gently as he traces Jonny’s soft skin with the pads of his fingers. Jonny squeezes back, and curls his fingers around Patrick’s like they’re a lifeline. Patrick can relate. He doesn’t want to let go either.

“My dick,” Jonny says with a smirk. Patrick wants to punch him and kiss his in equal measures.

“Romance doesn’t _have_ to be dead, Toews” Patrick says, shaking his head. “But I accept your offer.”

Patrick’s hip twinges as he climbs out of Jonny’s lap, and it’s a stark reminder that they’re way past their prime. That Patrick’s wasted years of this because he was scared. That _maybe_ they could have had a family and Patrick would have been blessed with mini versions of Jonny, Patrick giving in at the first hint of dark, puppy dog eyes.

“Peeks?” Jonny asks, breaking into Patrick’s thoughts. He holds out a hand for Patrick to pull him to his feet, and Patrick rolls his eyes before he clasps Jonny’s hand into this own. “Whatcha thinking about?”

“What we could have had,” Patrick says softly, unable to meet Jonny in the eyes. “If I hadn’t fucked it up. Maybe a family, or—”

“Hey, no,” Jonny says, tilting Patrick’s jaw up until he can’t avoid Jonny’s gaze. “The other stuff—it doesn’t matter. I’ve got the most important thing right here.”

“Yeah?” Patrick asks.

“If I wanted the other stuff, I’d have found someone else,” Jonny says in his captain voice. The one Patrick’s been conditioned to listen to. “The only thing I ever wanted was _you_. And if you don’t see that—”

Patrick cuts him off with a kiss. He doesn’t need the words with Jonny’s mouth pressed against his own.

*****

**Kane, Toews mixing business with pleasure in Florida**

A year ago, any hockey fan would have had their mouth foaming at the idea of Patrick Kane and Jonathan Toews reuniting in any capacity.

Two years ago, Kane was appointed general manager of the Florida Panthers, after three of the worst seasons in the club’s history. There was skepticism when Kane was appointed GM, as his exposure to managing a team had been minimal, but even his worst critics have had to eat their words.

In those two years he’s brought them one goal away from the Eastern Conference Final with a combination of free agent signings, trades and skilled drafting. He’s drafted the first openly gay NHL player. He’s had his own coming of age moment, and told the world that he’s bisexual. He even managed to bring his old teammate Jonathan Toews into the organisation, appointing him as Player Development Coach.

A year ago, the story would have been different. But after Kane came out, Toews moved to Florida. It took them less than two weeks to issue a short statement stating that they were together.

There is no real precedent for working with your romantic partner in the NHL. The closest the NHL has ever come is husband-wife combination of Terry and Kim Peluga, where owner Terry appointed wife Kim as the president of the organization. Kane and Toews are stepping into unknown territory.

When asked about it, Toews said, “It’s something we’ve had to learn to do over the course of our career. It’s hockey. I’m not going to agree with Kaner just because I don’t want to argue with him. I mean, history says we’re pretty good at that.”

Whether they are able to separate business and pleasure is yet to be seen.

But for now, Panthers fans should be cautiously optimistic. Kane and Toews managed to bring four Cups to Chicago over the course of their career.

Maybe they can bring one to Florida too.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Without You, I'm Nothing" by Placebo.


End file.
